


Vignettes from a Country Club

by Bittersweet_in_Boston



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Natasha Romanov, Blow Jobs, Character Death, Kissing, Lonely trophy husband Bucky Barnes, Long Island country club, M/M, Natasha Romanov is a good friend, Of course Thor breaks the fitness equipment, So much kissing as per uzh, Vet/Athletic manager/Student Steve Rogers, You can drive stick right, a lonely mansion on the North Shore, accidental drunkenness, anti-chub image gallery, asshole hedge fund managers, calm and certainty, dramatic fight in a thunderstorm, hints of non-physical spousal abuse, light canoodling, pornographic golf swings, screaming in the woods, the L-word, the healing power of Gatorade, threat of physical violence, wild tennis games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27870246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bittersweet_in_Boston/pseuds/Bittersweet_in_Boston
Summary: Bucky reaches out to Steve’s shoulder but instead of clapping it hard like his husband did, he rests his hand on it gently and caresses it a little with his thumb. Steve can feel the heat of Bucky’s hand through his shirt.“I can’t wait,” says Bucky softly. “See you soon, Steve.”Steve smiles and pulls away before he can spontaneously combust. He manages a weak “Bye” as he heads out the restroom door and then hurries to his car.On the 30-minute drive home to his apartment in Smithtown, Steve’s head is in a whirl. He wasn’t lying about meeting Sharon tonight - they’re getting together for pizza and a Netflix movie after her study group - but his thoughts are not with his girlfriend.Instead, they’re focused on a dark brown curl falling over Bucky’s forehead, the dimple in his chin, the way his mouth goes crooked when he smiles. As he pulls into the parking lot of his building, Steve can still feel Bucky’s hand on his shoulder.Bucky.Oh fuck, is he in trouble.**In which Steve Rogers, athletic manager at a chi-chi Long Island country club, falls for very alluring and very married new club member Bucky Barnes. Hijinks (and pining) ensue.**
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 13
Kudos: 74





	Vignettes from a Country Club

**Author's Note:**

> CW: description of behavior that is very close to if not actual emotional spousal abuse. There is one scene (in the “Time to Go Home and Face the Music” vignette) where physical violence seems to be threatened, but it doesn’t end up actually happening. And Brock Rumlow is a giant dickwad, as always. 
> 
> This was originally conceived as a 6-8K fic with very short vignettes but obviously that didn’t happen, haha, so here’s 24K of angst, pining, and an eventual happy ending for our two favorite idiots.

**Introduction: In Love with a Photo**

“Hey, Sam, what’s up?”

It’s a beautiful early spring evening on Long Island. Steve Rogers walks into Sam Wilson’s office and grins as Sam stands up to give him a quick clap on the back. Sam’s office is much bigger and much nicer than Steve’s, but he’s the general manager of the North Shore Country Club and Steve’s boss, so it makes sense.

And honestly, Steve doesn’t spend much time in his little office just off the golf course; as athletic manager, he’s usually walking around the club and grounds making sure the tennis nets aren’t ripped and the Pilates instructors are showing up and the grass on the putting greens is mown to the appropriate length.

“Do you have a few minutes, Rogers?” Sam sits back down and indicates Steve to do likewise. Steve tosses himself into the chair and looks at Sam with raised eyebrows.

“Gonna fire me, Wilson?” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “What’d I do this time?”

Steve is fairly sure Sam isn’t going to fire him, given that he relies heavily on Steve to make this club run and that beyond that, they’ve been good friends for ten years. Sam and Steve met as Army recruits and made it through Ranger training together. They were deployed on the same special ops team for years until Sam was injured on a mission and took an honorable discharge.

Sam came home and got a business degree, and got his friend a job at the country club when Steve left the Rangers - and the service - several years later. Steve’s been working at the club for three years now and got promoted to athletic manager - Sam’s old job - just over a year ago, when Sam was promoted to GM.

“Well, Rogers,” drawls Sam. “You’ve just been fucking up right and left lately. The course is full of weeds, the fitness center and the pool are shitholes, and no one likes you.”

Steve grins and leans back further in his chair. “Seems like that’s your fault, Wilson, for hiring such a fuckup.” He pushes his long legs out in front of him. “Go ahead and fire me, buddy, I could use the extra time for schoolwork.”

While Steve enjoys his job at the club, his dream is to be an artist and an art teacher. He’s going to school part-time at Stony Brook for his B.A. It may not be as prestigious as the art program at Columbia, where he’s taken a couple of painting classes, but since it’s on Long Island it’s a much shorter commute from his modest apartment in Smithtown. And since it’s a state school, it’s much, much cheaper and his student loans are much, much smaller, especially with his scholarship and veteran benefits. 

Sam shakes his head and laughs.

“Nah, then I’d have to hire and train some other idiot,” he says. “But seriously, Steve, I just wanted to let you know that we’ve got a new couple joining. VIPs.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “C’mon, Sam, aren’t all our members VIPs,” he says sarcastically. “This is the North Shore after all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam shoots back, impatient, “but this is a big shot on Wall Street, very deep pockets. Even for the North Shore.” He turns his laptop around to show Steve the big shot’s picture and application.

“Brock Rumlow,” Sam continues, as Steve looks at the photo and personal information. “52. Hedge fund manager. Senior partner at Hydra Advisors.”

Steve looks critically at the photo. A handsome, chiseled face with only a few strategically placed wrinkles. Botox? Dark hair with just enough grey to look dignified and dark brows over intense dark eyes looking down at something. A full mouth that nonetheless looks pursed and tight. In short, your typical arrogant Wall Street asshole. Steve keeps his face neutral but he’s rolling his eyes on the inside.

“Rumlow just moved from the Upper East Side to a huge pile in Cold Spring Harbor with his husband, and they want to stay fit and socialize. And play golf of course,” continues Sam, a small twinkle in his eye.

“Husband?” Steve’s attention is caught by the one word in that sentence he doesn’t hear that often. Sam clicks on the keyboard and turns the laptop back to Steve.

“James Barnes,” Sam recites. “Age 31. Project director at a non-profit in town until just recently, when he quit to move out here with Rumlow.”

Steve looks at the picture on the laptop and his heart turns over in his side. It’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, with short wavy dark hair, blue-grey eyes sparkling with sweetness and kindness in their depths, and cheekbones that would make the angels cry.

Is it possible to fall in love at first sight with a photo? Steve never would’ve said so before, but now he feels like maybe it is. Again he keeps his face neutral and tries to keep the emotion out of his voice, though it takes more effort this time.

“Second marriage?” Steve asks carefully, and not just because Barnes is so much younger.

“Funny you should ask that,” Sam chuckles. “I did a little digging about our boy Rumlow. His first marriage was to Barbara Morse, and they had a daughter, who’s now in college. Divorced ten years ago, and he came out soon after that.”

Sam turns the laptop back toward himself and Steve experiences a brief pang when he loses sight of the photo of James Barnes. _Pull it together,_ _Rogers,_ he says to himself, immediately and savagely.

“So whaddya want me to do, Wilson?” Steve says, “Pull out all the stops? Show the wonder couple all the amenities?” His tone may be a little more sarcastic and a little more bitter than it would be under normal circumstances. Clearly that face has gotten under his skin.

Sam looks at him sharply.

“What’s up with you, Rogers?” he says, looking hard into Steve’s face. “You know the drill. I know how you feel about the super-rich...” —this is a favorite horse of Steve’s to ride when the two of them go out for drinks— “...but you need to be hospitable and welcoming. For my sake. And for yours.”

Steve gives himself a mental shake and an imaginary slap upside the head. He’s being a drama queen, and the only thing to do in that situation is start laughing at himself. He grins self-deprecatingly at Sam.

“Sorry, Sam, I’m just tired,” Steve says. “It’s been a long day, and I have a paper to finish for tomorrow. I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. Or our new members.” _Even if one of them is already the love of my life. Who I haven’t met yet. Who’s married to an asshole._

“Everything OK with you and Sharon?” Sam asks, clicking to shut down his laptop. Christ, it’s like he can read Steve’s mind or something.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve replies, standing up. “Everything’s fine.” Everything is, in fact, not fine, but Sam doesn’t need to know that right now. “We’re just so busy...it’s hard to get time together.”

“I hear that,” Sam shakes his head. He’s married with a baby on the way and complains to Steve constantly about how “I never have time at home while I’m running this dump.” “Tell her I said hi when you see her, OK?”

“Will do,” says Steve, giving Sam an ironic salute. “So when can I expect to see these super VIPs at the club?”

“Rumlow made a reservation for dinner here on Saturday, so can you meet them when they arrive? 7.30.”

“Sure, no problem, boss, I got no life,” Steve says, one side of his mouth quirking up in a smile. “I’ll give them the best Steve Rogers welcome you could ask for.”

Sam laughs. “That’s what I’m worried about,” he teases. “Now get outta here. See you tomorrow.”

Steve gives him another salute. “G’night, Wilson. Hugs to Kamala.” Sam smiles and nods and shoos him out of his office.

On his drive home, Steve tries to get James Barnes’ face out of his thoughts. And fails miserably.

🏌🏽♀️🏌🏻🏌🏾♂️

**Thanks for Your Service**

“Mr. Rumlow? Steve Rogers, athletic manager here at the club. Good to meet you sir.”

The club dining room is packed, and there are a number of people near the bar waiting for tables to open up and having a drink. Steve walks confidently up to the new couple standing by the bar, and as Rumlow turns around, Steve sticks his hand out to meet him.

Steve’s got his soldier-meeting-a-senior-officer persona on tonight, partly because he thinks Rumlow will appreciate the formality and the deference, and partly so he can stay professional and avoid feeding the bias he’s already developed against the multi-millionaire hedge fund manager. He’s decided not to go too formal, and is wearing a fitted light blue button-down with the club logo stitched on the breast, sleeves rolled up, with tight navy twill pants and dark brown oxfords.

Rumlow turns around. He’s almost as tall and almost as built as Steve, and can clearly find time to take regular breaks from high finance to hit the gym. He’s wearing head to toe designer casual and looks like he just stepped out of a Tom Ford sportswear ad. He quickly looks Steve up and down and appears to like what he sees, because he leans forward a little to give Steve a bruising handshake.

“Steve Rogers, huh?” Rumlow says as he drops his hand. “Nice to see an athletic manager who’s in such good shape. Gives me some confidence about the quality of the club. Were you a professional athlete? Or played in college?” 

“Army Rangers, sir,” Steve answers briskly. “They make you stay fit and I just never kicked the habit when I left the service.” He doesn’t talk much about his military days but he figures it’ll impress Rumlow more than anything else on his resume.

“Call me Brock, please,” Rumlow says impatiently. “No need for this ‘sir’ business. But...Rangers, huh?” Rumlow’s eyes gleam. “Special ops. That’s really impressive. Thanks for your service, Rogers.”

“It’s Steve, please, sir...Brock,” Steve says. “And I appreciate it.” He’s never been sure what to say when people thank him for his service, especially since they’d probably be horrified to hear about some of the things he’s been ordered to do in the line of duty. Another reason Steve hates to talk about his time in the military.

Steve turns slightly to the figure beside Brock, who hasn’t said anything during this entire exchange and in fact appears to be trying to further efface himself into the corner of the bar.

“Hi there,” Steve says in a much gentler tone, holding out his hand. “I’m Steve and it’s really nice to meet you.”

James Barnes is even more beautiful in person. He’s wearing a burgundy polo sweater with a dark grey t-shirt underneath, dark jeans, and black driving moccasins. The curls that fall over his forehead are a little more artfully mussed than they were in the membership photo, and his jawline stands out in sharp relief, even in the dim lighting of the bar.

James’ physique is less bulky than his husband’s and he’s a bit shorter than both Rumlow and Steve, but the upper body muscles filling out the snug sweater make it clear that he, too, can find the weight room. His expression has been furtive, but when Steve turns to him, his incredible blue-grey eyes light up and he starts to smile. His handshake is, not surprisingly, much less aggressive than his husband’s.

“Hi, I’m...” James starts to say when he’s interrupted.

“This is James Barnes, my husband,” says Rumlow, sliding his arm possessively around James’ waist. The light goes out of James’ eyes and his smile at Steve turns apologetic. Another piece falls into place for Steve about this relationship.

“Well, Steve, let me buy you a drink,” says Rumlow without taking his arm from James’ waist. He signals the bartender and arrogantly orders a round of scotches without asking what everyone wants and without saying please. Peter, the bartender, sneaks a “can you believe this guy” look at Steve, and Steve gives him a tiny shrug and resolves to apologize to him later.

Steve is not a huge fan of scotch and he’s even less a fan of someone making his drink order for him, even when they’re buying. He controls his irritation with some effort as he remembers his promise to Sam to be friendly and welcoming.

“Thanks, Brock, that’s great,” says Steve in the most positive tone he can muster. Less than ten minutes in and he hates this guy already.

The drinks come a couple minutes later and Brock lets go of James’ waist to pass them around. He holds his up in a toast.

“To new friendships and loving partners,” Brock says, clinking glasses with both other men. He looks at Steve speculatively. “Hey Steve, you married?”

_Wow_ , thinks Steve, a wave of irritation going down his spine like an itchy wool sweater. _This guy’s got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer._ But this is not his first rodeo with the aggressive masculinity of Wall Street, so he controls himself and smiles.

“Nah, not married,” Steve says, taking a sip of his drink. “But my girlfriend, Sharon, and I have been together for a while. It’s great.” It is, in fact, not great, but he certainly isn’t going to spill his relationship issues to this asshole. 

At the word “girlfriend,” James’ eyebrows raise up his forehead and he cocks his head slightly to one side. But Rumlow’s eyes light up and the relief on his face is frankly ludicrous.

“Girlfriend? Wow, that’s terrific, good for you, we should go on a double date sometime,” he says, clapping Steve on the shoulder. He couldn’t telegraph his thoughts of _OH GOOD HE’S STRAIGHT AND THEREFORE NO THREAT TO MY MARRIAGE_ any clearer if it was stamped on his forehead.

Haha, joke’s on him, little does Brock Rumlow know. Steve keeps his bisexuality to himself, smiles again, and says insincerely, “Yeah, sure.” All this fake smiling is making his cheeks hurt.

After a few more minutes of small talk, Brock has finished his scotch, while Steve has sipped some of his dutifully and James has barely touched his. The drink makes Rumlow loosen up a bit, in his own fashion. He leans into Steve, close enough so Steve can smell the scotch on his breath along with a liberal whiff of Valentino Pour Homme.

“Steve, will you do me a favor?” Rumlow says. Without waiting for an answer, he goes on. “I’d love it if you could take care of James for me when he’s here at the club. You know...introduce him to the pros and all the quality members, set up tee times and foursomes, keep him company while I’m at work in the city. It’d be terrific if you could help me out.”

Steve manages not to raise his eyebrows and drop his mouth open, but it’s a close call. There are plenty of couples here at the club where one partner (often but not always the woman) doesn’t work outside the home, and sometimes they ask Steve to help them sign up for classes or one-on-one lessons, but no one has ever asked him this particular favor before. He feels like he’s been dropped into a marriage circa 1952. He looks at James inquiringly.

“That would be great, Steve,” James says in his quiet voice. His expression is eager and betrays none of the embarrassment Steve might have expected from such a request. “I’m really looking forward to meeting people and improving my handicap and tennis serve.”

“So whaddya say?” Brock says to Steve, all but ignoring James’ statements. Steve hesitates for a moment, not sure if he wants to get in the middle of this marriage. He admits to himself that he’s already very... _taken_ with James, but this situation has heartbreak all over it. But then he sees James’ smile and the excitement in his eyes and his resistance crumbles.

“Sure,” Steve says, shrugging. “It’s part of my job with new members anyway, and I’m happy to make sure James has access to all the amenities and feels at home here.”

For the second time that evening, Rumlow claps Steve on the shoulder.

“Excellent,” he says, a triumphant smile spreading across his face. Steve’s hand tingles with the urge to punch that smile off.

At that moment, the dinner hostess comes over and says Brock and James’ table is ready. Steve takes advantage of this event to excuse himself, saying he’s meeting Sharon later and he hopes they have a really nice dinner.

“Thanks, Steve,” says Rumlow, giving Steve another bruising handshake. “I’ll send James to you next week.”

“Excellent,” Steve says, and turns to James, who is quietly radiant, to shake his hand before he heads off down the hall. He sends a quick text to Sam to update him, and then heads to the men’s room, where he relieves himself and takes a minute to splash his face with cold water and take some deep breaths. What the fuck is he even doing here?

He’s about to leave the men’s room when the door opens and James walks in. He still looks beautiful, even in the terrible fluorescent bathroom lighting. Steve’s stomach turns over and he makes an effort to pull himself together.

“Hey, Steve, I just wanted to see if I could catch you and apologize about Brock,” James says, taking a few steps forward. Without his husband present, he seems less self-effacing, more sure of himself.

“He can be kind of direct and overbearing,” James continues, shrugging. “But that’s partly the whole hedge fund thing. He really has the best intentions.”

“OK,” Steve says hesitantly. “I just wanted to make sure that ‘the royal treatment’ is what you want. I don’t have to be so...omnipresent...as you settle into the club if that’s not something you’re comfortable with.”

“Oh no, I’d love it,” says James enthusiastically. Then his expression turns a bit wistful. “We just moved here last month from the city and I don’t really know that many people on Long Island yet, so I’m looking forward to making new friends here.”

“There are some really nice members here,” Steve says, trying to stay calm. “I can introduce you around so you’ll have some new friends in no time.”

“And you, Steve?” James says, cocking his head to the side, just like he did when he heard Steve talk about his girlfriend at the bar. “Will you be my... _friend_?”

Steve’s gut tightens up again at the emphasis James puts on that last word. He makes a last effort.

“Of course,” he says, nodding what he hopes is a normal amount. “Of course I’ll be your friend...James.”

James shakes his head.

“If we’re going to be friends, you should call me Bucky,” he says, grinning.

“Bucky?” Steve says, confused. “Why Bucky?”

“My middle name’s Buchanan. Yes, James Buchanan Barnes.” James chuckles when he sees the involuntary look of horror cross Steve’s face. “Long story. Terrible grandmother.” He waves it away. “My family calls me Bucky and all my friends since I was little.”

“But Brock...?” Steve is still confused.

“Oh yeah, Brock doesn’t like it and only calls me James,” says the other man matter-of-factly. “But I’ve made it clear to him that I’ll still go by Bucky with people close to me.”

The idea that he might get close to James...oops, _Bucky_...makes Steve’s insides churn for the third time in five minutes. It just isn’t fair.

“Well...Bucky,” Steve manages to spit out. “I need to go now but I’ll see you next week, OK?”

Bucky reaches out to Steve’s shoulder but instead of clapping it hard like his husband did, he rests his hand on it gently and caresses it a little with his thumb. Steve can feel the heat of Bucky’s hand through his shirt.

“I can’t wait,” says Bucky softly. “See you soon, Steve.”

Steve smiles and pulls away before he can spontaneously combust. He manages a weak “Bye” as he heads out the restroom door and then hurries to his car.

On the 30-minute drive home to his apartment in Smithtown, Steve’s head is in a whirl. He wasn’t lying about meeting Sharon tonight - they’re getting together for pizza and a Netflix movie after her study group - but his thoughts are not with his girlfriend.

Instead, they’re focused on a dark brown curl falling over Bucky’s forehead, the dimple in his chin, the way his mouth goes crooked when he smiles. As he pulls into the parking lot of his building, Steve can still feel Bucky’s hand on his shoulder.

_Bucky._

Oh fuck, is he in trouble.

🏌🏽♀️🏌🏻🏌🏾♂️

**Love-Thirty**

It’s a beautiful afternoon in mid-May, still spring-like but with that subtle warmth in the air that constantly reminds you summer is coming.

Steve comes out of his office right off the path to the first tee and stops for a minute to enjoy the weather. Spring is his favorite time of year and he loves this temperature, when it’s warm enough to walk around in short sleeves without being oppressively hot. Steve runs warm so he’s usually in short sleeves even in February, but he appreciates the bright light and pure, earthy sensuality of late spring.

He walks into the alcove that leads to the golf desk on the right and the fitness center and indoor pool, down the hall to the left. Steve doesn’t have any meetings right now or scheduled appointments with staff or members, but he’s got to make a few calls and then he wants to talk to Bruce, the grounds manager, about the grass on the 12th hole putting green.

As he strides down the hall he passes the men’s locker room, and a man pulls the door open and comes into the hall, narrowly missing bumping into Steve and over balancing. Steve instinctively grabs the person by the shoulders so they don’t fall down.

Both men say, “Sorry” at the same time and then Steve gets a look at the person’s face.

It’s Bucky, dressed in immaculate tennis whites. His expression lights up when he sees Steve and he says, “Steve!” with a big smile crossing his face.

“Bucky, how are you.”

Steve smiles back and drops his arms. He tries to calm the fluttering in his chest that always kicks in when he sees Bucky. He’s spent a good amount of time with Bucky over the past six weeks since the other man joined the club, and you’d think that time together would help ease his crush, but nope. He’s still mooning over Bucky like some lovesick teenager.

But he’s managed to stay friendly and professional in his interactions with Bucky at the club and to keep his inappropriate feelings to himself. In fact, he and Bucky have really gelled as friends, and they’ve already gotten comfortable enough with each other to tease each other and give each other shit. As much as Steve is pining for Bucky right now, he’s also really grateful for his friendship.

“I’m great,” Bucky says, and he does seem great - bubbly and excited, much more outgoing and energetic than Steve’s seen him in the past. “I’m having my first lesson with Carol today, and I can’t wait.”

_Oh shit._ Carol Danvers is the club’s top tennis pro, and they’re lucky to have her - she’s won a bunch of junior championships and was seeded at the US Open two years ago. She’s a huge draw for the club and her lesson schedule fills up fast, so Steve’s not surprised that Bucky is psyched to play with her.

Unfortunately Steve got a text from Carol 20 minutes ago that she’s sick in bed with the stomach flu and can’t make it to lessons this afternoon. And now Steve has to tell Bucky and burst his bubble.

“Uh, Bucky,” Steve says hesitantly, rubbing his ear, “I just heard from Carol that she’s sick today and had to cancel all her lessons.” He looks at the floor and back at Bucky. “I was just going to call the people on her schedule and let them know.”

Steve watches Bucky’s face fall and feels like that asshole who just told a kid that Santa Claus isn’t real.

“Oh damn,” Bucky says, crestfallen. “I was really looking forward to meeting her and playing together. I need some real help with my form on my second serve.”

“I know, and I’m so sorry,” Steve says sympathetically. “I’ll talk to her when she’s better and make sure you get the next available lesson time.”

“OK, thanks, Steve,” says Bucky, frowning a little less now. Then it’s like a lightbulb goes off over his head. His expression brightens and he says, “Hey! Would you play with me?” He looks a little worried as he continues. “I mean, I know you’re busy and all, but it would be great if we could play a few games...and it’s so nice outside...please?” He trails off, his face hopeful.

Steve hesitates. He does have work to do, but nothing that can’t be put off once he calls Carol’s other lessons. He looks into Bucky’s beautiful pleading eyes, and it takes him almost no time at all to relent.

“OK,” he says. “Give me ten minutes to make these calls and I’ll meet you out on the court.” The happiness on Bucky’s face is a little overwhelming, and Steve feels the need to tone down his expectations a little. “But Bucky, listen, I’m absolutely nowhere near as good as Carol, and I’m probably not even as good as you. All my tennis skills have been picked up piecemeal here at the club over the past few years.”

“That’s no problem,” says Bucky happily, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet in excitement. “We’ll just go out and hit the ball around, have a good time.”

“Great,” says Steve. “Just don’t get your hopes up. And don’t even think about asking me to fix your second serve,” he adds faux-severely, shaking a finger at his crush. Bucky’s eyes dance and he swipes a finger across his own chest.

“I promise, Steve,” he says, grinning. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Steve thinks briefly about what it would feel like to rest his hand on Bucky’s left pec where Bucky was just crossing his heart and his brain shorts out for a second. He gets himself together enough to say, “See you in a few” as he pulls out his phone and walks a ways down the hall.

When Steve meets Bucky out on the court a few minutes later, he’s finished his calls and changed from his Adidas training pants into some old snug navy tennis shorts he keeps at the back of his locker in his office. Bucky’s eyes widen a fraction when he sees Steve enter the court in these shorts, but he quickly adjusts his expression to neutral.

“So, are you ready to get your ass beat, Rogers?” says Bucky cockily from the other side of the net, bouncing a tennis ball with extra aggression.

“Bring it on, Barnes,” Steve growls back, trying to look tough, but he can’t hide his smile.

They play for the next hour, and here’s the thing. It’s not great tennis. It’s barely even tennis by the rules, with breaking serves and double faults and love-30 and net balls. They really do play and they really do keep score, but only in the broadest sense of the word.

But they have a blast. It’s intense but joyous and goofy at the same time. At the end of an hour, Bucky face is lit up and he’s laughing like crazy. Steve can’t remember the last time he had this much fun. He’s sweaty and out of breath, and so is Bucky, but they can’t stop grinning. Mr. and Mrs. McCormick keep stopping their practice to look quizzically over at the two loons on the next court, but Steve finds he doesn’t care. He shrugs and waves at them.

It’s the end of the last game and the last point is a deuce, advantage Bucky. Steve finds he is very much aware of the other man, can’t help but notice how his hair gets curlier in the warm air and how his white shirt sticks to his chest and gets more see-through as he gets sweatier. Steve can see the shadow of a nipple through the shirt and...is that a bit of chest hair? He forces himself to concentrate. It’s been a loose game but they are fairly well-matched and the score has been close all along.

Bucky serves and Steve hits a good return shot, but Bucky has obviously been studying some Roger Federer YouTube videos because he deftly flicks his wrist and puts a ridiculous spin on the ball, sending it past Steve, just out of reach. 

“YESSSSSS!!” Bucky and Steve yell together, mouths open - Bucky because he’s won, Steve because he can’t quite believe that last shot. And then everything happens fast. Bucky puts his arms up, jumps the net, and drops his racket as he runs toward Steve, who’s already running forward toward him.

The next thing Steve knows, he and Bucky are hugging and Bucky’s face is buried in his neck and he can feel Bucky’s heat against his front and Bucky’s scent - sweat and pine-scented shampoo mixed with something spicy like vetiver - rises up to overwhelm his senses. Bucky fits perfectly in his arms and it’s exhilarating just to hold him close and...

_...and..._

...and Bucky’s a married man with a jealous husband. It’s as if they both remember Brock at the same instant and pull back from the close embrace. But even the thought of Brock can’t dispel their euphoria and Steve still has his hands on Bucky’s shoulders as he says, “Jesus, Buck, that last shot was amazing! One in a million! I told you you’re better than I am.”

Bucky, chest heaving - from the exercise or from the embrace? - just shakes his head, a giant grin still plastered on his face. If he’s annoyed at Steve’s further shortening of his nickname, he doesn’t show it.

“Nah, no way, Steve, you’re really good! That was just a lucky accident.”

Steve rubs up and down on Bucky’s shoulders, caught up in the moment, and says, “Uh huh, ‘lucky accident,’ my ass. Just wait ‘til you get some lessons with Carol.”

“Yeah, I can’t wait, it’ll be great,” Bucky replies. But then he looks at Steve and grabs the hand rubbing his shoulder. It’s warm and strong. “But it won’t be as much fun as today.” His eyes sparkle as they look into Steve’s.

At that moment, there’s nothing else for Steve - no tennis court, no club, no chi-chi town on Long Island. Just the two of them, together. His heart pangs in his chest as he loses himself in Bucky’s blue-grey gaze...

...and then again he remembers where they are, and that they’re in public and not alone. Bucky evidently recalls this at the same instant, and they drop their arms with a start as they re-enter the real world. Steve slides his eyes over to the next court and sees Mrs. McCormick looking at them with an amused, suggestive expression. He smiles sheepishly at her before turning back to Bucky.

“Well...” he says, now a little shy and awkward but not wanting this magic to end. “Want to clean up and grab a drink? I have to talk with Bruce but that can wait a bit...and Peter makes a mean dark ‘n’ stormy...”

Bucky looks like he’s about to say yes, but his Apple Watch pings and he glances at it.

“Oh shit,” he says, his expression falling. “I’d love to, Steve, but I forgot, I gotta get home. Brock’s having some colleagues over for dinner later and I need to stop to get some extra booze and then meet the caterers. I’ll grab a shower back at the house. I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, no worries,” Steve says. He’s disappointed but doing a valiant job at a cover-up. “Next time.” He makes a further effort. “Tell Brock I said hi, and I hope the dinner party goes well.”

“Thanks, Steve, I will,” says Bucky softly. He looks like he’s about to turn and lean down to pick up his racket when he stops and looks back at Steve. He grabs Steve again in a tight hug.

“And thanks for the game, Stevie, I had a wonderful time,” Bucky whispers in Steve’s ear. Then he really does turn, grab his racket, and run off toward the club building.

“Me too, Buck,” says Steve softly into the air as he watches Bucky run off. “Me too.” His chest tightens and his cheeks warm at the thought of Bucky using his childhood nickname.

As Steve walks through the golf lobby to head to the men’s locker room, a petite, lithe figure joins him. Natasha Romanova manages all the indoor fitness programs and her Pilates and barre classes are always packed with women and a decent number of men. Not surprising, since she’s an excellent, demanding instructor with a killer physique and long red hair framing a face out of a Russian fairy tale. She barely reaches Steve’s shoulder, but her demeanor is equal parts enigmatic and dangerous. Steve considers her a good friend, but he’s still a little afraid of her.

“Hey Nat,” he says, continuing to walk down the hall.

“Hey Steve,” Nat says in a low, gravelly voice that adds to her charm and somehow also makes her even more terrifying. “Quite the game you were playing out there.”

Steve chooses to ignore the double entendre as he replies, “Yeah, we had a really good time. Bucky’s tennis is really impressive - Carol will have fun with him when she gets back.”

“And _you_ , Steve?” says Nat, turning to face him as they reach the double doors to the men’s locker room. “Is it all just fun for you?”

“Oh yeah, lots of fun.” Steve looks her smack in the eye, trying to keep the defensiveness out of his voice. “Bucky’s a really good guy. A friend. You know. Just a couple of friends playing tennis on a nice afternoon.”

Nat cocks her head almost imperceptibly, staring intensely as if she’s sizing Steve up. Which she probably is. Damnit.

“Uh huh,” she whisper-croaks, her perfect mouth quirking up in a slight smile. She pauses a second before saying, “Well, I hope you have a...nice afternoon, Steve.”

“Thanks, Nat, see ya later!” Steve responds, almost panicky, and makes his escape into the men’s locker room and into a shower cubicle. He sighs with relief that Nat can’t follow him in here to continue her oblique interrogation, and peels off his sweaty tennis clothes. There’s nothing untoward going on here, he tells himself firmly. He and Bucky are just friends, just two good buddies, having a good friendly time...

And then as Steve stands under the shower spray, he feels his body tingling, and the feeling comes back to him of holding Bucky in his arms, surrounded by his warmth and delicious scent...and he thinks about Bucky’s white shirt, almost transparent with sweat and plastered to his beautiful chest...Steve’s balls get warm and his dick starts to twitch and thicken...

...and then out of nowhere an image flashes into Steve’s head of Bucky in Steve’s bedroom in his little apartment. In this picture Bucky is bare-chested and wearing a little white tennis skirt with tiny white undershorts underneath, cradling his ass, cock, and balls just so as he twirls around and the skirt flares out...

With this, Steve’s brain shorts out and his dick goes fully erect and he drops all efforts at self-control. He jacks himself off quietly and efficiently, spilling against the shower tiles and whispering “Bucky” as he does so.

As he steps out of the locker room in a clean club polo and his track pants, he realizes that his body now feels a measure of relief but his heart is still aching behind his ribs. For Bucky. Bucky, who might just be his soulmate. And a married man.

As he walks down the hall to find Bruce and talk about the twelfth hole, he runs his hand through his damp hair and the same refrain echoes through his thoughts.

_Oh, you are fucked, Rogers. So fucked._

🏌🏽♀️🏌🏻🏌🏾♂️

**Correcting Your Swing**

“So, Bruce, we’re gonna need to do an extra mow on Friday morning and then set up the tape to keep the spectators off the course that afternoon,” Steve says, standing near the first tee with the ground manager. “Clint, anything else?”

Steve turns to one of the club’s golf pros. Clint Barton is the best pro they have - he was on the PGA tour for years and then retired several years ago when he hurt his back in a car accident. Like Carol with tennis, he’s a huge draw for the club. Clint’s a terrific athlete but he’s a giant klutz and always getting injured. Right now he’s wearing a boot on his left ankle because, according to Nat, he slipped walking down the two front steps of his house. Nat and Clint are dating and practically living together but keep it quiet at the club; only Sam and Steve know.

“Yeah,” Clint says, scratching his ear. “When you do the mow on Friday, take the rough a little shorter than usual. We don’t want to make anyone look bad on Saturday.” The three men laugh.

It’s a warm Tuesday afternoon in the third week of June and they’re discussing the club’s annual charity golf tournament, which is held at this time every year. They get a good crowd of local sports celebrities to participate and a lot of the members donate and sign up to play. It benefits Schneider and Stony Brook Children’s Hospitals and is thus near and dear to Steve’s heart as a Stony Brook student.

The tournament is a lot of extra work for the club staff - Steve has been staying late every night for the past three weeks and has only seen Sharon on FaceTime - but he really enjoys helping it come off. Thank fuck his spring classes are over and his one summer course is online and doesn’t start ‘til early July.

As the three guys finish their conversation, Steve sees someone approaching out of the corner of his eye and immediately knows it’s Bucky. He’s developed a sixth sense about his crush and can usually tell when he’s around the club. Of course today he knew Bucky was here because he saw his name next to a tee time right after lunch when he looked at the schedule.

“Hey guys,” says Bucky, grinning and adjusting his golf bag on his shoulder as he surveys the group. Then a look of concern crawls across his face and he stops and says, “Am I interrupting? I can leave you alone...”

“No no no,” Clint chimes in quickly before Steve can say anything. “We were just finishing up. Gettin’ ready for the big tournament this weekend.”

“I know, I’m so excited!” Bucky says, his face lighting up. “We got Mookie Wilson and Keith Hernandez! And Ahmad Bradshaw and Amani Toomer! AND Michael Strahan!” His smile threatens to spill off his face. “I wish I could tell high school me I get to meet the 2007 Giants.”

“Hey,” Steve says, grinning crookedly as he looks at Bucky. He’s almost used to the chest pangs and tightness in his throat when he sees his crush now. _Almost_. “It’s thanks to your husband that we got Strahan, he doesn’t do charity stuff for just anyone.”

It’s typical of Steve’s character that he acknowledges this. He detests Brock but he’s always one to give credit where credit is due.

Bucky shrugs.

“Brock and the managing partner at Hydra are good friends with Dana Walden,” he says matter-of-factly. “So Brock asked her to put in a good word with Strahan, and here we are.”

“I’m good friends with Dana Walden, too,” Clint says dryly. “She occasionally recognizes me when she comes in for a tee time.” All four men laugh. Then Bruce, a quiet, introverted man with dark hair and baggy clothes that cover up his surprisingly buff physique, excuses himself to go take care of some issues with one of the lawn mowers.

Bucky looks at Steve and Clint, clearly wanting to ask something but unsure about asking it.

“Hey Clint,” he says hesitantly. “Are you free right now? I noticed on my last round that my swing is off and I’m wondering if you can help me with my form at the driving range. I don’t want to let my team down on Saturday.”

“Oh man, I’m sorry, Barnes,” Clint says. “I’ve got a lesson with Mrs. McCormick in ten minutes and then I need to get some stuff done with this tournament.” He shrugs apologetically. But he looks at Steve and smiles. “Rogers here can help you with that,” he says, a gleam in his eye. “His swing is really good, though sometimes his shorter strokes and putting lack...finesse.”

“Jesus, Barton,” complains Steve. He can feel his cheeks go pink at the combination compliment/double-entendre as he turns to Bucky. “I think Clint is overselling me here, but I’m happy to help if I can.” He’d meant to call Sharon now before he has to work with Sam on tournament logistics tonight, but he can put that off.

Bucky’s face lights up again, as brightly as it did when he was talking about meeting his football heroes. “That would be great, Steve,” he says. “Even if you can just look at my form while I swing, you might be able to tell what’s wrong.”

“Yeah, I think Steve can do that, look at your form,” says Clint, raising one eyebrow. _Oh Christ, is it that noticeable,_ Steve thinks to himself, panicking a little. Then he remembers that Clint spends all his free time with Natasha and she’s probably dropped a few hints. Ugh. Clint salutes them ironically and leaves them to find Mrs. McCormick on the first tee. Steve offers to take Bucky’s bag and the latter refuses graciously.

“How’s Brock? Haven’t seen him in a couple weeks,” Steve says as he and Bucky walk the short distance to the driving range. He’s trying to keep his hormones in check and remind himself that Bucky is very, very married before he starts looking closely at his crush’s butt and hips.

Bucky shrugs. “Working on a big deal, so he’s in town late most nights,” he says. “It sucks, but I knew the drill when we got married, so...” he trails off and looks a little melancholy as he stares off in front of them.

“But he’s gonna try to make it to the tournament on Saturday to cheer me on, so that’ll be great. He can be really encouraging, you know,” Bucky continues. He sounds like he’s trying to reassure himself and Steve at the same time.

Steve wishes he were reassured, but in the almost three months he’s known this couple, he hasn’t exactly seen Rumlow as a loving and supportive spouse. When Brock is at the club he likes to parade Bucky around like a trophy and joke around with the other Wall Street types, but from what Steve’s seen he rarely treats his husband like a peer and a partner.

And Steve suspects that Bucky is lonely - his crush has made some friends here at the club, including Steve, but Steve knows that despite this he spends a lot of time alone in that giant mansion on Walnut Tree Lane. Still, he doesn’t want to put Bucky on the spot, so he shoves down his worry and frustration.

“That’s great, Bucky,” Steve replies in a voice that’s more dutiful than sincere. “I’m sure he’ll be really excited to watch you play.”

“How’s Sharon?” asks Bucky as they approach the driving range desk. Steve gets a bucket of golf balls from the desk attendant. Bucky met Sharon once a couple of weeks ago when she stopped by the club on her way into the city to drop off a couple of books Steve had forgotten at her apartment.

“She’s good,” Steve says automatically. “She’s super busy - got a lot of job interviews now that she’s finished her Masters.” They walk over to the hitting bay at the end of the row, away from the other members at the range.

“That’s great - in the city or out here?” says Bucky, putting his clubs down against the bench.

Steve hesitates, then decides to be honest.

“One in the city,” he admits. “The rest are in Chicago and DC.” Bucky’s in the midst of pulling his six iron out of his bag and stops short for a moment.

“Oh,” he says.

“Yeah,” Steve says, a little shortly. “It’s...unideal.”

“Well, there’s plenty of long-distance couples that work things out great,” says Bucky, in exactly the more-dutiful-than-sincere voice that Steve used with him a few minutes ago.

“Yeah, exactly,” says Steve, making an effort even though he already knows his relationship is totally fucked. Things were only so-so _before_ Sharon started applying for jobs hundreds of miles away. “It’ll be fine.” He shakes his head and then brusquely changes the subject.

“Alright, Rory McIlroy,” Steve says in a totally different voice. “Let’s see this problematic swing.”

Bucky grins. It’s clear he totally understands they’re moving on from difficult issues in their relationships that neither of them really want to deal with.

“Roger that, Rogers,” he says, and grabs a ball out of the bucket. He puts it on the tee and lines himself up for the swing. Steve stands behind him and looks intently at his form, trying very hard not to drool over the lats, traps, and glutes standing out in stark relief through Bucky’s tight pink golf shirt and snug dark grey Bermuda shorts. He resists the urge to look even further down at Bucky’s calves.

Bucky lifts his club and takes a swing. The ball goes a fair distance but wobbles a bit and slices to the right.

“Hmm,” Steve says, non-committal. “Try that again?” _Don’t stare at his ass don’t stare at his ass don’t stare at his ass..._

Bucky dutifully sets up another ball and swings at it. The same thing happens - the wobble, the slice. He exhales softly in frustration.

“So it looks like your slice is happening because you’re not setting your left hand correctly on the club,” Steve says. “You should be able to see three knuckles when you look down. Then lay your right hand over it with your thumb like this.” He takes one of Bucky’s other clubs to show him.

“Like this?” Bucky turns a bit and tries to copy him, his gloved left hand gripping the six iron. Steve attempts to stop thinking about how that gloved hand would feel caressing his bare skin and fails miserably. He clears his throat.

“Yeah, good,” says Steve. “If you feel like your left hand isn’t as strong as it could be, you should do some strength exercises. Natasha can show you some of those.”

Bucky nods and turns back to the tee. He lines up his shot and takes another swing. This time the ball stays more straight.

“Nice!” Steve says enthusiastically. “That’s much better.” He has Bucky practice the correct hand position several more times, and every time the slice is corrected. There’s still a wobble, though.

“I’m not sure what’s up with the wobble,” Bucky complains. “I’ve looked it up online and asked a few of the guys here, but everyone gives me a different answer, so I’m confused.”

Steve has Bucky takes a few more practice swings, and looks intently at his torso, both from the front and the back. Then he realizes what the problem is, and what he’s going to have to do to help Bucky fix it.

_Fuck._

“OK,” Steve says, letting out a noticeable exhale. “The wobble looks like it’s coming from your core and from your hips. When you swing, think about your follow-through coming from...from underneath your pelvis, just where your legs join.”

Steve mops his forehead - he’s really not constitutionally strong enough to think about what’s between Bucky’s legs - and encourages Bucky to try the swing again with that image. Bucky does try again and it looks a little better but there’s still a wobble.

“Shit,” says Bucky, turning toward Steve. “I can try again...”

“Hold on...” Steve says, mentally preparing himself. “Let me help you. Is it OK if I come up behind you and press against you so you can feel my form, and we’ll swing together?”

Bucky gives the barest of gulps, but nods and says manfully, “Sure.” There’s a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. Well it is a warm day, after all.

Steve steels himself and has Bucky position his body for the swing, then comes right up behind Bucky and puts his arms around him, holding Bucky’s hands where they’re gripping the golf club. The entire front of his body is pressed against the back of Bucky’s body, and Steve can feel the warmth radiating off the other man and smell his spicy-vetiver-piney scent. It’s intoxicating, but Steve is determined not to get a stiffy right now and starts reciting the alphabet backwards in his head, his time-tested method for avoiding a chub.

“Alright,” Steve says in his forceful instructor’s voice. _T-S-R-Q-P..._ “Just relax and move with me, but let me do all the work, OK?” Bucky nods. “While we’re swinging together, just notice how it feels in my hips and how they move to follow through. Does that make sense?” Bucky nods again but says nothing.

Steve takes a deep breath and focuses on the area at the foundation of their bodies where they’re most closely touching. After a few seconds he moves himself and Bucky from the base of their spines and up through their torsos to their arms to swing the club back and then down in one fluid series of movements. The club connects precisely with the ball, which sails firmly through the air, straight and true, hitting the ground at the 180-yard mark.

Rather than standing up and turning around in celebration, for a minute Bucky seems to nestle further into Steve’s body, curling himself even closer into Steve’s arms. Steve closes his eyes and thinks briefly how perfectly Bucky fits in his embrace, how it would feel to be big spoon to Bucky as they lay together in Steve’s bed.

He loses himself for a few seconds and buries his face in Bucky’s hair, inhaling the pine scent and feeling how soft his crush’s hair feels against his cheeks. He hears Bucky’s breath catch...

...and then suddenly he remembers that they’re outside at the club, and that even though there aren’t many people on the driving range right now, they’re still in public. He pulls back hastily from Bucky’s body and says, in a shadow of his assertive teaching voice, “Really nice job, Bucky. Did you notice how that follow-through felt?”

Bucky turns and looks at Steve. His breath is coming in short gasps and his cheeks are pink. “Yeah, Steve, that was amazing.” It’s unclear whether he means the golf swing or being held in Steve’s arms. Steve swallows hard. _N-M-L-K-J..._

“Oh, g-good. Good,” Steve replies. Suddenly Natasha appears next to him, scaring him out of his wits. Steve knows she’s just taught two Pilates and a barre class back to back, but she looks perfect in her all-black yoga clothes, no sweat anywhere and not a hair out of place.

“Hey Steve, James,” Natasha nods at Bucky. Steve sighs inwardly. Bucky has spent months trying to get Nat to call him Bucky, but she prefers his formal name. Steve isn’t sure whether that’s because she likes to be contrary or because she’s protective of Steve and giving Bucky warning signals. Knowing Nat, it could be either. Or both.

Natasha puts her hand on Steve’s arm and continues. “Steve, can I talk to you? Got an issue with some workout equipment.” She turns to Bucky faux-apologetically. “Sorry to tear him away, James, is it OK...?”

“Oh, of course, no problem,” Bucky says, over-eager. He turns to Steve, a little shy now, cheeks still flushed. “Steve, thanks for the lesson. I think it’s gonna be a big improvement.”

“Sure, Bucky, glad to help,” Steve says, aware that Nat is trying to pull him away as soon as possible. “You should try that swing again on your own now. And then spend 20 or 30 minutes here at the range before you get out on the course for games with others. Just to...” he pauses, searching for the right words. “...just to drive home the change. Permanently reinforce the right alignment.”

As he says the word “drive,” an image flashes through his brain of Bucky on his knees in Steve’s bed, legs spread, moaning loudly and taking Steve’s deep thrusts in his delicious ass... _fuck._

_H-G-F-E-D..._

Bucky’s cheeks go pinker and it’s almost as if he can see what Steve’s thinking.

“Got it, Steve, thanks again,” he says rapidly. “See you later, Natasha,” he says, turning to the petite redhead.

“Bye James,” says Nat. “Good luck with your...swing.” Her perfect mouth quirks up in a lopsided smile. Steve narrowly avoids rolling his eyes and says, “Bye, Bucky” as he walks away with his colleague.

Steve waits until they’re well out of hearing range and almost to the building entrance before turning to Nat and asking sarcastically, “Well, Romanova, what’s the equipment emergency? Ripped mat? Sweat on the treadmill? Someone broke a nail on a kettle bell?” He’s a little more savage than usual because he suspects that Nat, as an inveterate busybody, manufactured a crisis to come break up his golf lesson with Bucky.

Nat smiles her enigmatic Mona Lisa smile, confirming Steve’s suspicions. But before he can get mad at her, she says matter-of-factly, “Actually the leg press and the lat machine are broken, so we need to call the repair company.”

Steve sighs. “Thor?” he says.

“Uh huh,” says Nat.

Thor Odinson is a club member, a Norwegian ex-pat working for Novo Nordisk in New York. He’s incredibly popular at the club, but he’s also even more built than Steve and occasionally breaks the weight machines with his enthusiasm. He always pays for the damage and leaves huge tips for the waitstaff, so no one can get too mad at him. Still, it’s a pain in the ass.

But before Steve can get too sidetracked by buff Scandinavians, he turns the two of them toward his office just inside the door and the conversation back to his suspicions.

“So,” Steve says as they walk into his office. “Why’d you really come get me.” He forces himself to look her in the face and be firm, because to be honest, while he loves Nat as a friend, he’s definitely afraid of her. She’s tiny and looks like he could bench press her easily, but whenever they spar in self-defense classes, she always kicks his ass and puts him on the mat. And he was an Army Ranger. Nat says she used to be a professional dancer but Steve wonders frequently if her background isn’t a little more... _interesting_ than that.

Nat tilts her head to the side and hesitates before speaking.

“How’s Sharon?” she asks obliquely. Steve is confused for half a second before he realizes where this is going.

“Flew to Chicago today for a second interview,” he says shortly, pursing his lips.

“Ah,” Nat replies. She hesitates again.

“Steve, I care about you,” she says, and again Steve is thrown into confusion. He knows he and Nat are friends, but this is about as demonstrative as she ever gets.

“Thanks, that’s...nice?” says Steve. “I care about you too...?”

Nat wriggles her shoulders impatiently.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” she says. “And that...” she flicks her head minutely in the direction of the driving range, “...has ‘hurt’ written all over it.”

“No, don’t worry, Nat, it’s fine.” Steve tries hard not to sound too defensive. “We’re just friends. Nothing going on there. Really. He’s a good guy. Just needed help with his golf swing.”

“Just be careful, Steve,” says Nat, shaking her head. “That’s not something you want to mess with. Rumlow is not someone you want to mess with.”

“Seriously, Nat, I know,” Steve says earnestly. “And I’m not messing with any of it, I promise. We’re really just friends.” 

_Besides, Brock thinks I’m straight, so no danger there,_ Steve thinks but doesn’t say.

“And I’m still with Sharon,” adds Steve, looking pointedly at Nat.

“For now.” Nat raises her eyebrows. Steve chuckles sarcastically and looks at the ceiling.

“Look, just...be careful,” Nat says again. “You deserve everything. The full deal. Someone who’s crazy about you, not just treating you as backup, as something fun on the side while they wait for the main attraction to come home. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

Steve is take aback by this entire exchange. He’s known Nat for three years, but he’s never seen her like this, open and voluble and sincere and...worried. Nat is worried.

“Nat...” he starts to say, and she cuts him off.

“Promise me, Steve,” she insists, eyes dark. Steve hesitates, and then relents.

“I promise, Nat,” he says, in the most sincere voice he can muster. “Really.”

Nat appears to be mollified by this response, at least for now.

“OK,” she says. “OK.” She exhales, looks at the floor, and looks back at Steve. “Now call Advanced Fitness about those machines,” she says, pointing her finger at him.

Steve puts up his arms in surrender. “I’m calling them right now,” he says.

“Good,” says Nat. Her Apple Watch pings at her. “I’ve got a class to teach,” she says. “Catch you later.” She goes to leave, then abruptly turns back and comes up to Steve, gives him a quick, fierce hug and whispers in his ear, “Don’t fuck up.” Then she’s gone.

Steve stands in his office, a little dazed, trying to pick up the pieces from Hurricane Natasha. He’s more shaken than he’d like to admit by her words and behavior. He’s been telling himself that his feelings for Bucky have been kept buried, secret, known only to himself, but obviously this isn’t true. Of course, Nat is more observant than just about anyone else he knows...

And she’s not wrong. While Steve feels an incredible physical attraction to Bucky - I mean, that synchronized golf swing back there was practically pornographic - if he’s honest with himself, he’s also fallen for the other man. Hard. He and Bucky click like no one he’s ever met before, and when he makes Bucky laugh or sees his eyes light up, his heart is more full than it’s ever been in his life.

Steve collapses into his desk chair and forces himself to confront the truth. It’s love. He’s hopelessly in love. It’s not just a crush, he is _absolutely_ _gone_ for Bucky Barnes. He realizes that he might as well have been crossing his fingers behind his back when he promised Nat he’d be careful. Because he hasn’t been careful at all - he’s gone and lost his heart to someone who, however he may or may not feel about Steve, isn’t free to love Steve back.

_Oh God._

Pushing his chair back, Steve leans forward and drops his head into his hands. He considers trying to avoid Bucky, to encourage him to get more friendly with other club members. But the idea of not being close to Bucky, of putting distance between them and dialing back their friendship, is even more agonizing than the idea that he’s in love with someone he can never have. Steve has to stay close to Bucky. He just has to. He’s just going to have to steel his heart and suffer in silence.

After a few deep breaths, Steve sits up, resolute. He can do this. He can be just friends with the love of his life, _damnit_. He’s going to call the fitness repair people, and then he’s going to call Sharon to set up a date tomorrow night when she’s back from Chicago, and ask her to wear that black and red silk lingerie set he got her last Christmas when he comes over to her place.

He picks up the phone and dials.

🏌🏽♀️🏌🏻🏌🏾♂️

**This Bathroom is Occupied Right Now**

“Hey Steve,” says Sam.

Steve starts and looks up from his desk. He’s just packing up his laptop and getting ready to head home. It’s almost 9 pm on a warm evening in mid-July but a little light lingers in the sky outside. It hasn’t cooled off that much from the heat of the daytime so Steve is thankful for the A/C hissing quietly in the background.

“Hey Sam, what’s up? I thought you’d left a few hours ago,” Steve says. Then he gets concerned. “Is something wrong with Kamala? Do you need me for something?”

“No,” answers Sam. “I mean, yes. I mean, everything’s fine with Kamala and I did go home for dinner but I had to come back to grab some stuff.” He hesitates. “But yes, I do need you for something.”

“Sure, anything,” Steve says, sincere. Then he turns a little mischievous and continues, grinning. “What kind of mess have you gotten into that you need me to pull you out of, Wilson.” 

“It’s not a mess _I’m_ in,” says Sam, still serious. “But I was in the dining room just now and I’d say your boy Bucky needs some force protection and possibly some backup.”

“He’s not my boy, Sam,” says Steve, his mischievousness turning to annoyance in a second. He feels especially aggrieved about this comment as he’s been trying lately to cut down on the time he spends with Bucky and keep their interactions more formal...at least more formal than long hugs on the tennis court and intimate synchronized golf swings at the driving range. It’s not like it’s helped Steve, who remains as wildly in love with Bucky and as heartsick as ever, but he was hoping it would look better to Nat and Sam and the other staff. So much for that.

“Well, I know you’re good friends and you care about Bucky,” returns Sam, shrugging. “So maybe you could go upstairs and keep an eye on him. He’s been drinking with Jack Rollins and his friend for the last hour or two.”

Steve’s annoyance turns to quickly to alarm. “Rollins, huh?” he says grimly. Jack Rollins is a senior VP at another hedge fund in the city and has been a club member for several years. He’s divorced and spends a lot of time socializing at the club and in town, picking up both men and women. He’s charming and friendly...probably too friendly. He doesn’t limit his pickups to single people and he’s been in the middle of a number of marital squabbles and at least one separation.

Now that Steve thinks about it, he’s seen Bucky playing golf on foursomes with Rollins a few times over the past couple weeks, and it didn’t sink in. It does now. He puts his laptop bag down and ushers Sam out of his office, locking the door behind them.

“What are you gonna do?” Sam asks, looking concerned as they stand in the hallway. “Please don’t tell me you’re gonna beat up Rollins in the club, Rogers, I don’t need the bad publicity.”

“Pffft, Sam,” says Steve, scornfully, shaking his head. “You’re such a drama queen.” He runs his hand through his short hair. “Bucky is a grown man who is fully capable of handling himself with someone like Rollins. However, as you said, some recon may be required.” The two men smile at each other.

“You’re the best, Steve,” says Sam, clapping him on the shoulder. Steve lets out a snort.

“Remember that at bonus time, will ya, Wilson,” he chuckles, and heads upstairs.

Steve enters the bar area quietly and stands in a dark corner to assess the situation. Once he catches sight of his target, sitting with two other guys in the middle of the crowded dining room, he slides onto a barstool to start his observation. The dining room is fairly brightly lit so he can see it well but stay out of sight himself unless and until needed.

Bucky is sitting on the far side of his table so Steve has a clear view of his face. As usual, when he sees that face, his gut twists a little. He’s used to it. He’ll never get used to it.

Bucky is very animated and his cheeks are pink, almost as pink as his rose-colored button-up. Jack Rollins is sitting to Bucky’s left so Steve can see him in profile. His dark hair is shiny and slicked back and his tan face and neck stand out against his white golf shirt. At first Steve can’t see the third guy behind another table, but he leans forward and Steve recognizes John Walker, another long-time club member and one of Jack’s recent conquests.

Jack says something funny and Bucky tips his head back and laughs. As he does so, Jack leans forward and touches his arm. Steve’s punching hand twitches when he see this, but he controls himself. So far it doesn’t look like Bucky’s in any imminent danger, and as he told Sam downstairs, Bucky is a grownup who can handle himself.

Even as Steve thinks this, Bucky takes a big slug of his straight whisky, which is atypical - both the type of alcohol and the rapid intake. Bucky usually sticks to wine or cocktails and he usually makes one or two last the entire night. Steve knows. He’s been paying attention.

And Steve continues to pay attention. He orders a club soda with lime from Peter at the bar and drinks it slowly, ostensibly watching the TV showing Tour de France highlights but keeping an eye on the table in the dining room. Bucky finishes his whisky fairly quickly and immediately Rollins calls their server over to order a new round. Steve’s anxiety rises as he witnesses these events, but he’s still hesitant to do anything about it. He already feels a little weird spying on Bucky and that group as it is.

About twenty minutes later comes the tipping point. Steve is finishing his club soda and watching Peter Sagan madly sprint toward the line on TV when Bucky stops laughing and joking with Rollins and Walker and stills, his face pale and almost greenish. When Rollins leans in, concerned, and touches Bucky’s arm again (Steve’s fingers close in on his fist again, ugh), Bucky looks at him, shakes his head and attempts a smile.

Bucky must say something like “be right back” because he stands up and walks quickly toward the hall and the men’s room. His face is sheet white and it’s clear that he’s trying to walk normally but his gait has the irregularity of someone who’s seriously wasted.

Steve stands up abruptly, waves goodbye to Peter and follows Bucky at a safe distance down the hall. He’s expecting Bucky to turn into the bathroom near the dining area and bar, but Bucky speeds unsteadily past that door down the hallway and down the stairs to the small men’s room not far from Steve’s office. He’s very wobbly and clearly having trouble, and how he manages to make it safely down those stairs Steve will never know.

Cautiously, Steve descends the stairs and comes up to put his ear to the bathroom door. He hears some loudish groaning and then the unmistakable sound of throwing up.

_Oh shit._

Steve stands outside the door for several minutes, unsure what to do. He looks up and down the hallway but this part of the club is deserted as always at this hour. Finally the toilet flushes and it sounds like Bucky is finishing up his yukefest. Easing through the door, Steve waits until it shuts and then locks the deadbolt behind him.

The sound of the lock turning breaks the post-barfing silence and Bucky’s breath catches as he hears it. He says “Oh no!” in a shrill, none-too-steady voice and staggers out of the nearest stall to confront the intruder. Bucky’s face is sheet white but his eyes are red with tears and burst blood vessels, there’s snot running down from his nose, and his lips are swollen and trembling. He’s still the most beautiful thing Steve’s ever seen in his life.

“Excuse me, but this bathroom is occupied right now, do you mind...” The edge of panic in Bucky’s voice is pathetic and all Steve wants to do is gather him in his arms and kiss his face, tell him it’s all going to be alright.

Instead, Steve restrains himself and says calmly, “Hey Buck, it’s just me, it’s Steve.” He holds up his hands.

Bucky’s relief when he sees it’s Steve and not some other member is almost comical, but then he remembers his situation and gets self-conscious, and his mouth crumples.

“Oh god, Steve, oh god,” he wails, swaying. Immediately Steve takes three steps forward to grab him gently by the shoulders and steer him toward the small bench next to the marble sinks. He eases Bucky onto the bench and sits down right next to him. Without hesitation Bucky leans over and starts bawling into Steve’s sleeve.

It’s the most natural thing in the world for Steve to put his arms around Bucky and lean in to kiss Bucky’s hair and whisper reassuring words as the other man cries and cries.

“It’s OK,” Steve murmurs, drinking in Bucky’s pine and vetiver scent, which is heavily mixed with scotch, and gently rubbing his shoulder and back. “It’s OK, Buck. I’m here, I’m here, it’s OK, you’re safe, it’s OK.”

After several minutes Bucky’s sobs subside a bit and he starts taking in huge gulping breaths with occasional catches in them. His tears have left a large damp patch on Steve’s polo but Steve doesn’t care at all. He’d happily give Bucky his shirt to blow his nose on, to be honest.

Finally Bucky lifts his head and Steve pulls back a bit to look at him. To add to the red eyes, free-flowing snot, and trembling mouth, Bucky’s face is now white with red blotches. He’s a sight, but Steve can’t stop looking.

“Y’OK, Buck?” Steve murmurs, wiping a few stray tears off Bucky’s cheek with his thumb. Bucky wipes his eyes with his arm and sniffles once or twice in a vain effort to get the snot under control. Steve quickly stands up and grabs him some tissues off the sink, sitting back down as Bucky wipes his face.

“Oh god, Steve, I’m so drunk,” Bucky wails and blows his nose heavily into a wad of Kleenex. Steve suppresses a smile.

“I got that, Buck,” he says gently, taking Bucky’s used tissues and depositing them in the wastebasket. “What happened? Were you up in the dining room? I was just leaving and saw you booking it down the hall.” There’s no way in hell that Steve is ever going to admit to the love of his life that he was spying on him from the bar.

“Yeah, I was gonna have dinner with Jack and John Walker,” Bucky sniffles. “And then they kept buying me drinks...and I ordered some food but it hadn’t come out yet...and the next thing I knew I felt so dizzy and sick...” He bangs his head awkwardly against Steve’s shoulder. “I feel so stupid,” he mumbles.

“How many scotches did you have,” Steve asks, still gentle.

“I dunno...like four or five...doubles?” answers Bucky, his forehead still pressing on Steve’s arm. Steve fights down the urge to kiss it, and rubs Bucky’s back instead.

“Jesus, Buck, of course you got sick,” says Steve, sympathetic. Now he’s fighting down the urge to run upstairs and grab Rollins by the collar and shove him against the wall. _Fuckin Rollins, that bastard, what the fuck..._ Steve controls his Mama Bear instincts with effort.

“Brock’s away this week, in China negotiating a deal, so I thought it’d be fun to hang out with the guys tonight after we played the course.” Bucky lifts his head and looks blearily at Steve, hesitant, as if wondering whether to say something. Then he makes a decision.

“Honestly, S-Stevie, I’ve just been so lonely since we moved out here. I really liked my job in the city at Breakthrough New York, helping low-income kids, but Brock said we didn’t need the money and he wanted me to enjoy myself and focus on our new life out here. So I gave it up.”

Now the words are tumbling out of Bucky as if he can’t say them fast enough. Steve just sits and listens, still rubbing Bucky’s back.

“But I really miss it, Steve,” Bucky continues, his mouth unsteady. “I miss my work colleagues and I miss the kids and I miss my friends in the city. I get in to see them occasionally but Brock is always pushing me to make new friends here at the club or in our neighborhood.” He blows his nose again. “I like my new friends here and I lo—...lo—...I really like you, but still...I’m lonely.” He leans into Steve’s hand on his back and lets out a huge sigh.

Steve’s heart skips a beat at Bucky’s stammering. He was clearly going to say the word “love” and changed his mind. But even then Steve doesn’t get his hopes up at this. He realizes that Bucky is still very attached to his husband, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it, especially given all the red flags that just popped up in his mind during Bucky’s confession.

Pressuring someone to give up their job, controlling their decisions, trying to isolate them from old friends...Steve knows these are textbook early signals of spousal abuse. Bucky doesn’t appear to be physically abused but he’s clearly suffering emotionally. Steve’s heart aches.

He wants to do something, wants to rescue his soulmate from this terrible situation, but there’s nothing he can do. He can’t even tell Bucky to sneak out to see his city friends more often because his experience with other couples is that that never ends well. The only thing he can do right now is to be there as a shoulder to cry on. Literally.

Steve leans into Bucky and rubs his back some more. “I’m sorry, Buck, really. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“You...you’re doing it right now, Steve,” Bucky sighs. “Thank you.” He frowns and looks as if he’s just come to a realization, and says out of nowhere, “You’re not...you’re not busy tonight, are you, Steve? I’m not keeping you from Sharon or anything?”

Steve goes still for a moment and stops rubbing Bucky’s back. Might as well tell Bucky now while Steve’s got him alone.

“Sharon and I broke up last week,” Steve says softly after a brief hesitation. “She’s moving to Chicago at the beginning of August and things weren’t working anyway, so we decided to make a clean break.”

“Oh Steve,” says Bucky, butting his head harder against Steve’s shoulder. “I’m so...so sorry.” He does sound sorry, too.

“Thanks,” says Steve, his voice sad. “These things happen, though. People change and drift apart, find new interests and careers...” _And meet their_ _real soulmates,_ Steve thinks but doesn’t say. There’s a brief period of silence.

Then Bucky sways a little bit on the bench, and smacks his lips together. “God, my mouth t-tastes like ass right now. And not even...not even good ass.” He laughs faintly at his own joke. Steve smiles and then has an idea.

“Hold on,” he says, carefully bringing Bucky upright and resting him against the bathroom wall. “Let me get you something for that. Be right back.”

Steve darts out of the bathroom, unlocks his office, and grabs a yellow Gatorade out of his mini-fridge. He keeps a supply of these at work to keep up his own hydration, especially in the summer. He’s about to leave the office when he stops and grabs his laptop bag and a few Advil out of the bottle in his desk. Then he hurries back to the bathroom.

Bucky is leaning against the wall, breathing heavily. He doesn’t look green like he’s going to yuke again, but he does look pale and clammy and uncomfortable.

“Here,” says Steve, uncapping the drink and handing it to Bucky. “Let’s get you hydrated. And take these.” He dumps the Advil into Bucky’s hand. “They’ll help you tomorrow.” Bucky groans.

“I don’t even want to think about tomorrow,” he whines, but he obediently swallows down the pills with a big swig of Gatorade.

“Little sips now,” says Steve. “We don’t want to upset your stomach more.”

Again Bucky obeys and takes small swallows out of the bottle. As he does so he leans back against Steve’s shoulder, sending a tremor through Steve’s torso. It should be illegal to feel like this, especially about a married man who’s going through a life crisis. But Steve’s heart won’t comply and swells with unexpressed love. He pulls Bucky to him for a moment before pushing back to take a look at his charge.

“Is that OK?” Steve says, searching Bucky’s face for signs of distress. “Is it settling in your stomach OK, or is it making you feel sick again?”

Bucky stops sipping for a moment to take stock. “I think it’s alright,” he says. His eyes are half-closed and his words are slurring - not just from inebriation, but from exhaustion. Steve’s heart melts.

“Let me drive you home,” he says, gently patting Bucky on the knee.

“Oh no,” Bucky starts to protest. “I don’t want to put you out, I can just order a car...”

“I want to make sure you get home safe,” Steve interrupts. “A Lyft driver is not your friend, and they won’t check on you to see that you’re not choking on your own vomit in the back seat.”

“Well, it’s not Lyft,” says Bucky with a smile. “But...point taken. Thank you, Steve.” He leans back against the wall, his face drawn and pale as he drinks more Gatorade.

Several minutes later sees Steve helping Bucky to the latter’s car and easing him into the passenger seat. Steve actually loves Bucky’s car - it’s “only” an Audi A4, a few years old, but it’s dark green, with nice leather seats, and best of all, it’s a manual transmission. Brock hasseveral much fancier cars, but Bucky once told Steve that when Brock tried to buy Bucky an R8, Bucky told him no and insisted on this much more modest alternative. Steve thinks it suits Bucky much better than any flashy sports car ever could.

“You can drive stick, right, Steve?” Bucky asks as Steve slides into the driver’s seat. Heroically resisting an R-rated retort, Steve just says, “Yep” and hits the starter button.

As they glide past the main entrance to the club to exit the parking lot, Bucky turns his head quickly and says, “Oh shit, Jack...what am I gonna say to Jack? I just left him in the dining room, no explanation...” He shakes his head but then stops as that obviously doesn’t feel good.

Personally, Steve can think of a lot of things he wants to say to Jack Rollins right now, none of them good, but again he restrains himself and just replies, “You can text him tomorrow. Just say you weren’t feeling well.” Steve pulls out of the lot and onto Woodbury Road.

“Oh man,” Bucky moans, and leans back against the headrest, closing his eyes. He makes a big sigh.

“Steve, thank you so much for all of this,” says Bucky in a near-whisper. “You’re so wonderful... such an amazing person...” He rests his left hand on Steve’s right thigh.

Sparks shoot up Steve’s leg through his torso and his breath catches. He’ll admit that he’s dreamed of feeling Bucky’s hands on his thighs but not really like this. He swallows hard and tries to calm the tingling in his crotch while also cursing Fate for being so cruel.

Steve spends a few minutes wondering what to do when he hears a faint snore. Bucky has passed out, his head slightly tipped back against the seat and his mouth open.

Steve chuckles softly and shakes his head. The ridiculousness of this situation is killing him. Driving his soulmate home...his adorable and unattainable and completely wasted, passed-out soulmate...in his soulmate’s car...with his soulmate’s hand on his leg...how even is this his life?

Bucky and Brock’s house is not actually that far from the country club, and within minutes Steve is pulling into the long driveway. He’s never been here before, but he knows the neighborhood and he knows Brock, so he’s not surprised to see a palatial French-style mansion looming up on his right with a circular drive and an attached four-car garage on the far side. The driveway lights and outside light over the front door are on, and one room light inside, but otherwise the place is dark.

Steve pulls up as close as he can to the front door and puts the car in neutral and park. He gently dislodges Bucky’s hand from his thigh, takes off their seatbelts, and gently shakes Bucky awake.

“Bucky? Buck? We’re here...at your house,” he says softly. “Time to go inside. Do you want me to put the car in the garage?”

“Huh? Uhh?” Bucky wakes with difficulty and stares at Steve for a moment before his question penetrates. “Oh, no, that’s fine, just leave it here. I’ll put it away tomorrow morning. If I’m...if I’m still alive,” he groans, and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

“You’ll be alive,” smiles Steve, patting Bucky’s shoulder. “You won’t enjoy it, but you’ll still be here. Is there anyone here who can help you? Take care of you?” Bucky shakes his head.

“Marta, our housekeeper, leaves at 8 most nights,” Bucky says. “I told her to leave early today since I’d be at the club.”

“Do you need me to help you inside? Get you situated?” asks Steve with some trepidation. Part of him is hoping Bucky says yes so Steve can stay with him longer, and part of him really wants him to say no so Steve can just leave so he won’t be further tormented...or tempted to do something rash.

“No, thanks, Steve, you’ve done so much already, I can manage.” Bucky’s speech is still a bit slurred, and he can barely keep his eyes open, but it’s clear he’s determined to take care of himself from here on out. He looks with shining eyes at Steve for a few seconds and then his eyes widen as he comes to a realization.

“You n-need to get back to the club, to your own car!” Bucky cries. “Oh shit.” He scrabbles clumsily at his pants pocket for a minute and pulls out his phone, hitting a few buttons with practiced ease.

“No no, it’s OK, I’ll just call a Lyft...” Steve starts to protest. But Bucky finishes his button-pushing and lifts his head, triumphant.

“Our car service is sending a driver out now to pick you up,” says Bucky. “He should be here in eight or ten minutes.”

Steve starts to protest more, but is silenced when Bucky looks at him seriously, if a little unfocused, and puts his hand against Steve’s cheek and jaw.

“Steve, you’ve taken such...such good care of me tonight, and you’ve been so wonderful to me ever since I moved here,” Bucky murmurs. “Let me do this one little thing for you in return.” He smiles softly and licks his lips.

Involuntarily Steve leans his face into Bucky’s hand and his eyes flash as he looks at Bucky. He’s been good, so good, this evening and he’d never try to take advantage of Bucky in his current state, but every fiber of his being yearns to lean forward and kiss those lips, to claim Bucky with his mouth. And in fact he suddenly feels with a sort of horror that he is leaning forward...and Bucky is leaning toward him too, eyes heavily lidded, mouth slightly open...

...and then Steve manages to get hold of himself and stops. He briefly touches Bucky’s face, then grabs Bucky’s hand and squeezes it.

“You should get inside,” Steve rasps out, barely above a whisper. “Take care of yourself. Go fall into bed and have a good sleep.”

Bucky looks at him, a little disappointed at first, but that expression turns quickly to understanding with a bit of wide-eyed disbelief at what they were about to do. He leans forward and presses his lips to Steve’s cheek for a few seconds. In that time Steve can smell the scotch and Gatorade along with Bucky’s usual intoxicating scents, and he briefly closes his eyes.

“Thanks, Steve,” says Bucky softly as he pulls away. “I—you’re the best. I’ll see you soon.” He opens the car door and gets out gingerly, waves at Steve, and then walks unsteadily to the front door without looking back.

Steve makes sure Bucky gets into the house safely and then starts down the driveway so the car service won’t have to come all the way up to the house. If he’s completely honest with himself, he also wants to get away so he doesn’t have to watch Bucky moving around in this huge, grand, unwelcoming house and feel ridiculously sad about it.

Looking up at the stars as he ambles down the drive, Steve takes a deep breath of warm July air. He wonders again how he got here, hopelessly in love with someone he can’t have. His heart aches intolerably and he wonders how much longer he can do this and whether next time he’ll be able to stop himself. He is, of course, sad about Sharon, but at least that was a clean break. This is a huge unresolved mess and it hurts worse. Far worse.

For one wild moment Steve thinks about going to Sam tomorrow morning and quitting his job, getting away from the club, Nat, Clint, everyone. At least it would get him away from this intolerable situation with Bucky. But then he comes to his senses and realizes this is cowardly nonsense. He likes his job, it pays well, and gives him the flexibility he needs to go to school. He just needs to distance himself from Bucky, funnel him off to Carol or Clint, encourage him even more to make other friends at the club. Maybe other friends besides Jack.

Steve thinks about this. He isn’t pleased with Bucky’s new friendship with Rollins, but that’s not something he can do much about. And Bucky, as Steve told himself (and Sam) earlier this evening, is a grownup. He can make his own choices. Steve wonders briefly how Rumlow will react to his husband’s new friendship with Jack, but that’s also not something Steve has any control over. And not really his business.

After a minute or two Steve reaches the end of the long driveway. Headlights crawl up the row of bushes behind the mailbox as the town car pulls up slowly next to him. He waves as it stops and crawls into the backseat.

“Hey thanks, man, appreciate it,” Steve says to the driver as the car turns around and heads down the street.

“No problem, happy to help Mr. Barnes out,” the driver says, looking at Steve in the rearview mirror, his stare equal parts inquiring and speculative. Steve finds he’s not up to any kind of scrutiny right now and turns his head to gaze out the window. The huge houses pass by his vision in a blur and the summer stars twinkle overhead as they head back to the club.

🏌🏽♀️🏌🏻🏌🏾♂️

**Time to Go Home and Face the Music**

It’s a hot and humid evening in early August and Steve is sitting at his desk, feeling a little clammy and wondering if he should get up and turn up the A/C, when someone knocks on his door.

“Come in!” Steve calls. He usually leaves his office door open, but the air is so oppressive that even the occasional opening of the nearby doors leading outside to the first tee make his room unbearable. As he says this he thinks he can hear thunder off in the distance.

It’s Natasha, looking perfect and formidable in a black golf skirt and fitted black polo. Unlike most of the staff and members at the club, she only wears dark colors, with the occasional splash of bright red. Steve knows for a fact that she just finished teaching an advanced Yoga-lates class, and yet she looks like she’s a model about to start a shoot.

“Hi Steve,” Nat rasps in her two-pack-a-day voice.

“Hey Nat,” responds Steve, stretching his arms over his head and moving his neck from side to side. He’s been working on budgets and scheduling on Excel for the last hour or two and needs to loosen up his upper body a bit. “What’s up?” 

“Well...I just wanted to stop by and say hi. See how you’re doing. How things are going. Make sure everything’s OK.” Nat closes the door and comes in and sits down in front of his desk.

Steve looks at her, alarmed. She never visits his office just to shoot the shit, never shows this level of obvious concern for anyone. It’s why everyone in the club thinks she’s amazing but is also terrified of her, including him.

“I’m fine, Nat,” Steve says, searching her impassive face for any sign of trouble. “Are you OK?”

Nat must get his inference, because she sighs like an annoyed teenager and rolls her eyes to the ceiling.

“Yeah, Steve, I’m fine,” she says, a thread of impatience edging her voice. “But you were really mopey and distracted the last time I really talked to you a couple weeks ago, so I wanted to check in.” She hesitates, then pushes on. “Make sure you weren’t getting ready to jump off a cliff or any other stupid stuff.”

Nat’s blunt talk brings Steve up short. It’s true, after that night when he’d taken a very wasted Bucky home and almost kissed him, he’d been lost in his own thoughts for a few days, working all day at the club in a fog, avoiding Bucky and his work colleagues as much as possible, and then going home to drink beer and play Castle Crashers on his Xbox for hours until he passed out. He’d written the final paper for his summer ed class in one night in this fog, but (happily) held off on submitting it.

And then one night last week as he was leaving work, he’d seen Brock and Bucky having dinner in the club. Brock had been attentive and demonstrative for once, and Bucky had been radiant, his eyes fever-bright and his cheeks pink with delight and surprise at being the center of attention of his often-distant, often-absent, often-neglectful husband. Neither of them had seen Steve, and he’d ducked out the main entrance before they caught sight of him.

Steve had felt like he’d been punched in the gut and had gone home that night to his apartment. But instead of collapsing on the couch with a frozen dinner and beer and videogames, he’d changed into old exercise clothes and run miles around Caleb Smith State Park. In the middle of the run, he’d stopped deep in the woods, looked up at the stars, and screamed himself hoarse, and then he’d run home, his throat and eyes burning.

Back at his place, he’d drunk five Gatorades, showered, and edited the shit out of his class paper before turning it in online. As soon as he’d submitted the paper he’d thrown himself into bed and slept for twelve hours. The next morning he’d woken up and resolved to move on.

All this runs through Steve’s head in an instant when Nat says she’s making sure he’s not jumping off a cliff.

“Oh god, Nat, no, I’m fine,” Steve hurries to reassure her. He hesitates, wondering how much he should tell his friend about his life crisis. “I...uh...made a big change last week. Finished my final DASA exam paper.”

He hesitates again. “And...I...uh...I was thinking about signing up for Tinder. ”

As Steve says this, lightning flashes and a clap of thunder echoes overhead as if to punctuate his statement. He starts a little but Nat stays perfectly calm. Her left eyebrow quirks upward, as close as she gets to registering surprise. The rain starts a few seconds later, drops falling heavy and fast on the metal roof just outside the door.

“That’s great, Steve,” she says, her mouth curving up in the faintest ghost of a smile. “When you get tired of swiping left, I can introduce you to my friend Maria. Lives in Bayside. Works for Stark Industries. Security and self-defense training. You two would get along great.”

“Sounds good,” responds Steve, maybe a little more enthusiastically than he feels. As much as he’s determined to move on, he still thinks about and aches over Bucky most of the time. That wound will take a while to scar over and even longer to heal, even after all the beer and the Castle Crashers and the running and the screaming in the woods.

“Excellent,” Nat says decisively, and stands up, shaking out her glorious hair. “Now come upstairs and buy me a drink. Let’s celebrate...you finishing your exam paper.”

Steve knows that it’s something else that Nat wants to celebrate with him, but he goes along with the pretense. He hits save on his spreadsheet, closes his laptop decisively, grins, and says in an exaggerated Brooklyn accent, “Sure thing, dollface.”

The rain continues to pour down as they enter the bar and sit at the back corner, saying hi to Peter and ordering their drinks - bourbon on the rocks for Steve, a straight vodka shot for Nat. They clink their glasses.

“To new beginnings,” says Nat, looking at Steve pointedly. He smiles and says, “Cheers.” And then as he’s taking a sip of his drink his eyes involuntarily scan the brightly lit dining room and he catches sight of Bucky.

He’s not at the same central table where he was sitting with Rollins and John Walker a few weeks ago; he’s off to the side a bit, out of the brightest lights. He’s facing Steve and laughing and flirting with his dinner companion, whose back is to Steve but it looks like Brock, tall with dark hair. A few seconds later the companion turns his head to take a sip of his drink, and Steve thinks, _Oh shit._

It’s not Brock. It’s Jack Rollins.

Steve had thought that Bucky had gone off Jack after that miserable night a few weeks ago, but clearly he hasn’t. And it flashes through Steve’s mind that Steve has been purposely avoiding Bucky lately, and Bucky’s been all alone in that huge mausoleum of a house as Brock works late hours in the city or jets all over the world buying up overseas companies. So of course Bucky has turned to someone who’ll pay attention to him.

Steve doesn’t blame himself for leaving Bucky alone - he’s been trying to protect himself and move on with his life, after all - but it doesn’t stop him from tensing up and going on high alert. He can’t help feeling like Rollins is bad news for Bucky.

Natasha notices immediately (of course) and casually glances over to see what Steve is staring at. She turns back to Steve, her mouth slightly turned down.

“That’s picked up again in the last week or so,” she mutters. “I don’t think anything’s come of it...so far.” She looks quizzically at Steve to see what he’ll do next. A flash of lightning and an accompanying burst of thunder rent the air outside.

Steve takes a deep breath and a swig of his bourbon. His head is fuzzy with mixed emotions: concern, anger, frustration, and yes, jealousy. He’d give anything to be the one sitting and flirting with Bucky over a nice dinner. But Steve’s resolved to put all this behind him, to move on. And besides, as Steve rationalizes to himself (yet again), Bucky is an adult who can take care of himself, and none of this situation is Steve’s business.

Steve is about to shrug and say something along these lines to Nat when the automatic doors of the main entrance open behind him and to his right and Rumlow bursts into the club, stalking down the entryway on heavy feet. He’s not wet at all, so he must have left his car right under the overhang at the entrance. His face is impassive but bright red and a blood vessel is plainly visible ticking at his left temple.

Brock looks around the dining room, sees Bucky immediately, and strides over to the table. When Bucky sees him, his face goes white under his tan but he tries to put on a smile and show how glad he is to see his husband. He greets Brock with quiet words that Steve can’t hear, and tries to get him to join him and Rollins, but Brock clearly isn’t having it.

“Cut the bullshit, James,” he says in a tight voice that is worse than yelling and is audible all over the space. The dining room goes quiet and a few servers disappear discreetly into the kitchen.

“And you,” Brock continues, turning to Jack. “You stay the fuck away from what’s mine, or I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”

Another flash of lightning and peal of thunder outside the big windows of the dining room make this statement even more dramatic than it already is. Rollins flushes at this and looks like he’s about to protest and spin some line about him and Bucky just having a friendly dinner, when Brock cuts him off.

“Save it,” spits Rumlow. “I know all about you, John Emerson ‘Jack’ Rollins, and your... conquests.” He turns to Bucky and grabs him by the arm, pulling him roughly to his feet. “Come on, James, it’s time to go home and face the music.”

One or two dining room guests gasp at this development, but Brock ignores them. His face is even redder now and that vein in his forehead is popping out even more.

Bucky’s face is white as a sheet and he swallows but complies meekly with Brock’s treatment and allows his husband to drag him toward the main doors. He doesn’t even look back at Rollins, who’s still flushed and attempting to regain his composure. Bucky looks like a prisoner walking to the gallows at his own execution but his demeanor shows he’s trying to stay calm.

They pass the bar, and Steve involuntarily leaps to his feet, his eyes flashing. He’s never ever interfered in this kind of marital dispute before, but he’s terrified for Bucky given the state that Brock is in right now.

As he stands up, Nat grabs his hand and hisses, “No, Steve, don’t.” Despite her warning, Steve is about to go over and intervene when Bucky turns his head at the movement and catches sight of Steve. His frown deepens and he gives an imperceptible shake of his head.

Then Bucky’s eyes spark with a look of pleading and with something deeper and even more intense that Steve doesn’t even want to think about, though it sends a tremor through his gut. Brock is so intent on manhandling Bucky out of the club and into the waiting car that he doesn’t even look around.

A moment later the two men exit the building. A car engine revs hard above the sound of the rain and tires peel out of the parking lot. Another round of thunder and lightning, only this time a little farther away.

The dining room and bar are quiet for ten or fifteen more seconds and then burst out in shocked and excited chatter. Servers reappear and start bringing out complementary apps and new rounds of drinks.

Steve is still standing rooted to the ground, looking out the door, face impassive, jaw clenched. He’s not sure what to do. Nat decides for him by tugging on his hand to pull him back into his seat and saying gently, “Steve. Steve.”

He turns and looks at her and obediently sits back down at the bar, taking another slug of his drink. His mind is reeling with the incident, and he’s trying not to panic. He knows that Brock is neglectful and borderline emotionally abusive to Bucky, but tonight it looked like Brock was ten seconds away from beating the shit out of his husband.

Natasha leans forward a bit and squeezes Steve’s arm.

“It’ll be alright,” she says, signaling to Peter to bring them another round. “He’ll be alright.” But her expression is grave and her eyes are troubled.

Steve shakes his head. He’s not at all sure that Bucky will be alright, and when he goes home after their second drink, he barely sleeps for worrying.

This worry doesn’t dissipate the next morning, when Sam texts him a screenshot of a brief article from the _Wall Street Journal_.

_BROCK RUMLOW, SENIOR HEDGE FUND MANAGER, DEAD AT 52_

Cold Spring Harbor, NY—Brock Rumlow, a senior partner at midtown hedge fund Hydra Advisors and a long-time star of the investment management industry, died last night at his home on Long Island at age 52. Initial reports indicate he died of an apparent heart attack, but an autopsy is forthcoming to confirm cause of death. He is survived by his husband of almost two years, James Buchanan Barnes, 31, his ex-wife, Barbara Morse, 50, and his daughter, Isabelle, 20. A full obituary will be included in a later edition...

🏌🏽♀️🏌🏻🏌🏾♂️

**I’ve Dreamt About This for So Long**

Steve sighs and sprawls back on his couch, taking a chug from his water bottle. The late August heat and humidity are stifling, even at 9 o’clock at night, and his thermostat is turned as low as he can get it. He’s wearing only a pair of loose athletic shorts, having thrown his t-shirt onto the La-Z-Boy earlier because it’s so hot. Thank fuck his apartment building has central air.

The Mets game is playing on Steve’s TV but it’s on mute and he’s more focused on his phone. He’s scrolling through social media and checking local and New York news reports for the zillionth time that day.

It’s been almost a month since Brock stormed into the country club and dragged his husband off the premises, looking for all the world like he was going to beat Bucky into next week. The next day’s news of Brock’s death did little to calm Steve’s worries. Was Bucky OK? Was he going to be blamed for Brock’s death somehow? Did Brock hurt Bucky before he died? Steve’s fist still clenches involuntarily when he remembers these thoughts.

The full obituary, published the next day in all the major news outlets, indicated Rumlow had indeed died of a massive coronary, despite his high degree of fitness. The obit had gone on to give more details about his life and loved ones, and had stated that in lieu of flowers, donations could be sent to the American Heart Association and the Gay Men’s Domestic Violence Project.

Steve’s eyes had widened at this last statement and somehow he felt sure that Bucky had chosen this charity. But it didn’t ease his worry about Bucky’s physical well-being.

This worry had been somewhat assuaged when Steve caught a news story on NY1 about the funeral, held at St. Patrick’s Cathedral several days later. The footage showed Bucky standing at the top of the stairs in a black suit as the pallbearers carried the coffin down the steps toward the hearse. A tall, beautiful middle-aged lady with honey-blonde hair and light eyes stood next to him, and an almost as tall young woman who looked exactly like the older one only with Brock’s dark coloring, stood next to her. These must be the ex-wife and daughter.

Bucky looked intact, with no bruises (though who knew what that suit was hiding?), but his skin was pale and the dark shadows under his eyes stood out in high contrast. At the end of the footage, he hugged the two women and said some words of comfort to the younger one, who was crying. But Bucky remained stoic, his blue-grey eyes standing out against the ravages evident in his face.

After the funeral Steve had debated what to do. He’d worked with Sam to make donations in the club’s name to the two charities, but he wasn’t sure whether he should try contacting Bucky directly, or whether that would just make things worse. Steve had gotten his hopes up when, a little over a week after the funeral, he’d gotten a text.

**Unknown Caller**

_Be in touch soon, don’t worryx_

Steve had instinctively known this was Bucky, even with the “Unknown Caller” thing. (Did Bucky get a new phone? Steve has Bucky’s old mobile number.) He’d tried immediately to text back, but had gotten no reply. Steve’s chest had contracted at the “x” at the end of the text, and he’d spent a decent amount of time wondering if it was on purpose or just a typo.

But that text didn’t stop Steve from worrying about Bucky, and in his more reckless moments he’d envisioned driving over to the huge, depressing mansion on Walnut Tree Lane to check on him, talk to him...hug him? But even in those moments Steve knew that that was a bad idea and he put it out of his head with a sigh. If Bucky wanted Steve with him at the house, he knew where to find him. Steve could only hope that Bucky was getting some sort of emotional support, perhaps from his friends in the city.

And indeed, Steve himself has been relying on emotional support from his friends for the past few weeks. He’s gone to work, but he’s been doing his job as if in a dream and then hurrying home. Only instead of drinking and playing videogames, as he did last month, he’s been combing through all the online sources he can think of to try to find news of Bucky. He’s found nothing.

Sam, Nat, and Clint watch out for him at the club, making sure he eats and takes breaks, and taking over of as many of his duties as they can. Nat says nothing these days about Tinder or Maria Hill in Bayside, but she’s extra sweet to Steve and comes to visit him in his office and bring him treats every day. Steve finds this a little unnerving, given that this is Nat and she’s still scary as fuck, but he appreciates the sentiment.

Steve has put aside any notion of getting over Bucky. He thought he’d started to move on a month ago, but the tragedy and his obsessive thoughts and worries have emphasized to Steve just how much he’s still deeply in love.

But now, sitting in his apartment on a hot night in late August, Steve has to admit that he’s losing hope. The text that said Bucky would be in touch soon was weeks ago now, and the radio silence has been dispiriting. There’s been nothing about Bucky in the news since the funeral, and his social media accounts have been dormant.

Steve’s heart aches with love and uncertainty. What can he do? He drops his phone on the couch, stands up, and stretches his arms over his head, groaning in frustration but not too loudly, because he’s considerate of his neighbors. School starts again in a couple weeks, his last two academic courses before his student teaching practicum in the spring, but in the meantime he wishes he had something to distract him.

He jogs around the couch a few times to get his blood flowing, but it’s way too hot to do much physical activity at all. He’s about to collapse back down on the couch and turn up the volume on the Mets game when there’s a knock at his door.

Steve starts and he looks toward the small entrance foyer with furrowed brow. His front door is inside the apartment complex, so he usually has to buzz people up from the main entrance when they call on the intercom. He’s not expecting friends and he hasn’t ordered any delivery.

Confused, he calls “Just a sec!” as he grabs his t-shirt off the easy chair and throws it on as he heads toward the door. (Later he’ll realize he put it on inside out, but it won’t matter at all.) He looks through the peephole and gets a jolt from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.

Bucky Barnes is standing there.

Steve wrenches the door open and says “Bucky!” in a sort of gasp/shriek. Bucky is wearing a loose t-shirt, twill shorts, and driving moccasins and, like Steve, looks like he just grabbed something to cover himself as he was running out the door. His hair is mussed with that one rogue curl falling over his forehead. His face looks sallow, like he hasn’t been outside much at all for the last few weeks, but there are two pink spots burning at the top of his cheekbones and his eyes are huge and grey.

Steve looks at him in shock for another second or two, frozen in place. He can hardly believe Bucky is here and his brain has basically stopped functioning. There’s a brief silence as the two men stare at each other and then...

“Steve!” Bucky’s exclamation is more of a gasp/sob. His mouth trembles and then without warning he launches himself at Steve, throwing his arms around him and laying a searing kiss on Steve’s mouth.

Steve groans out loud, grabs Bucky by the hips, and maneuvers them past the foyer and into the living room as the door shuts behind them. At some point in this process Bucky loses his shoes. They kiss and kiss, like they can’t stop kissing, like they’ll die if they don’t keep kissing each other. At one point, Bucky pulls back a bit, eyes wild, lips red and swollen, and says, “Is this OK? Are you OK with this? Are you...?”

Steve looks at the love of his life for a second and growls, “Fuck yes, Bucky...oh my darling Bucky...” and lunges forward again. He kisses Bucky like he wants to devour him, all the stress and worry of the last few weeks, all the angst and pining of the last few months, exiting his body through his lips. Through the hormone storm he’s currently experiencing he can tell that Bucky is doing the same, kissing him and licking into his mouth with wild release and abandon.

After what seems like ages Steve moves over to kiss Bucky’s jaw and down to his neck, smiling a little at the moans this elicits. He moves Bucky’s t-shirt aside and grazes his teeth against Bucky’s collarbone.

“Fuck yes, Stevie,” Bucky hisses. “Mark me up. Make me yours.”

This demand makes Steve exhale roughly and he feels his dick harden more in his shorts. He sucks a mark onto the spot and moves his other hand down Bucky’s back to cup his ass cheeks and pull his love closer. He can feel Bucky’s hardness against his inner thigh and chokes back a groan.

When he’s satisfied with the bruise he’s left on Bucky’s collarbone, Steve loosens his hold on Bucky’s neck and comes back to kiss his lips. The evening is still too warm, even with the A/C on maximum, and with the body heat surging between them, both men are glowing with a light sheen of sweat. As if on a prearranged signal, they pull back from kissing to rip their t-shirts off over their heads.

Steve takes a couple of seconds to scan over his beloved’s body, greedily taking in his muscled arms and torso, his dark nipples standing at attention, the light coating of hair surrounding them and coming together to head south to his navel. And then the beginning of a happy trail below that that disappears into his shorts. He sees that Bucky is staring back at him, his pupils blown dark with desire as his eyes take in Steve’s bulk.

Suddenly Steve needs to see Bucky’s dick and worship it as it deserves. He drops to his knees, kisses Bucky’s belly right above his shorts, and then quickly divests Bucky of both shorts and boxer briefs.

Bucky’s long, uncut dick is fully erect and leaking a little pre-come from the tip. Steve swirls his tongue around the tip to taste it and then ducks down to lick a stripe from bottom to top. Bucky gasps out loud and grabs the sofa behind him to avoid losing his balance.

Steve smiles briefly before taking Bucky’s cock between his lips, savoring the musky taste and the weight of Bucky’s hardness against his tongue and the roof of his mouth. He bobs his head a few times before licking up around the crown and dipping his tongue once, twice, three times into Bucky’s slit.

“Oh god, Steve,” whispers Bucky. “Feels so good...so good...”

Steve pulls off and looks up at Bucky, eyes flashing. “God, your dick is amazing, Buck,” he rasps, kissing the tip. “I’ve dreamt about this for so long...wanted you for so long...”

“Me too, Steve, oh my god,” Bucky says, throwing his head back as Steve sucks his cock back down his throat. But after a few minutes, Bucky grabs Steve’s head and forces him back to standing so Bucky can kiss him and lick into his mouth to taste his own pre-come. Just the thought of this sends a jolt of lust through Steve’s gut because damn, that is so hot. He licks into Bucky’s mouth and over Bucky’s top teeth.

“Please,” whines Bucky, pulling back after another minute or two of kissing. Steve licks down Bucky’s neck and worries at the bruise he’s already left to darken it.

“Please what, Buck,” he growls.

“Fuck me, Steve. Fuck me, _please_.” 

Steve’s eyes darken and his brain shorts out even more, and he moves automatically to pull Bucky into his bedroom. He gently pushes Bucky in the direction of the bed and roots around in his nightstand to find lube and condoms.

When he turns back to his lover, Steve’s throat closes up with want. Bucky is leaning on his elbows over the end of the bed, face down toward the sheets and ass in the air.

“Jesus, honey,” Steve croaks, throwing the lube and condoms on the bed next to Bucky’s left hip and drinking in the sight of him, naked and serving himself up as if on a platter.

“I’m all yours, Steve,” whispers Bucky. He wiggles his hips a little to emphasize this point.

Steve opens the lube cap and pours a healthy dollop between Bucky’s ass cheeks before reaching in almost reverently to massage around Bucky’s tight pink hole. After a minute, Bucky hisses and leans backward into Steve’s touch, impatient.

“C’mon, Steve, get me ready. _In me._ ” Bucky’s voice is almost a whine and his hips buck as Steve gently inserts one finger into his ass and then two, scissoring him open. Bucky is so _hot_ and so _tight_ and _fuck_. It’s not long before Steve’s got three fingers in there and Bucky is arching his back and leaning into his hand and begging for Steve’s cock.

Steve is happy to oblige, as his cock was ready for Bucky long ago and is about to split open his tight running shorts. He manages to pull these off while continuing to finger fuck Bucky’s loosening hole, but has to remove his fingers to slide on the condom and pump at his shaft a few times. He’s about to push his dick against Bucky’s hole when he looks down at Bucky’s freckled, muscular back and changes his mind.

“Turn over,” says Steve in almost a snarl, gripping Bucky’s shoulders and twisting them. “I want to see your face, want to look you in the eye while I fuck you.”

Bucky shrieks a little and immediately complies, turning onto his back and crawling up the mattress. He spreads his legs wide and Steve can see his hole, shiny and pink and gaping, waiting for him. Steve lines himself up and, once he breaches that tight furl of muscle, smoothly drives himself all the way in until his pubes are flush with Bucky’s balls, stopping to savor just how hot and just how tight his lover is.

Bucky shrieks again and says, “Fuck yes, Stevie, fuck yes, fuuuuck...” With this, Steve starts smoothly pounding into Bucky, making sure to hit his prostate with every few strokes. Bucky looks up at Steve, fire in his glassed-over eyes, and says, “Yes, Steve, fuck me good, feel so full, your dick feels so good inside me, yes, love this, yes...” and it’s almost like a chant.

Steve can feel the molten heat rising in his gut and he knows he’s close. But he wants to see Bucky come first. So he alters his angle just a bit so he’s pounding Bucky’s prostate constantly.

“Come for me, Buck,” he growls, speeding up his thrusts. “Come on my cock. I know you want to. I know you can.”

“Fuck yes, Steve,” gasps Bucky, and the fire in his eyes turns to wonder as his eyes widen and his dick twitches and... “Oh god,” Bucky says in a small voice, his mouth open, and it’s almost like a prayer. “Oh god...” He moans loudly as spurts of come decorate his abs and chest.

Seeing Bucky come turns the heat at the bottom of Steve’s gut to fire and after five or six more furious thrusts, he tips over the edge and his cock pulses inside Bucky as he comes.

Steve stays there at the top for a moment, eyes closed, before opening them to look at his love. Bucky’s cheeks are pink and he’s smiling and his chest is heaving and he’s covered in a light sheen of sweat and he looks like a goddamn angel lying under Steve in the afterglow. Steve gulps, overwhelmed in the face of all that beauty spread out under him.

“I love you,” Steve blurts out on his next breath. “Oh god, Bucky, I love you so much.” As soon as he’s said it, he feels a jolt of panic in his chest. Is it too soon? What the hell is he doing?

But Bucky soon puts his worries to rest. He looks up at Steve, his eyes bright and shining.

“I love you, too Steve,” says Bucky, his words and demeanor soaked through with serenity and confidence. “I’ve never loved anyone like this in my entire life. I love you.”

And with this, Steve sinks down to join his lips to Bucky’s, heedless of the drying come on Bucky’s torso. He’s found his soulmate. He’s joined to his soulmate. He never wants to let go.

A little while later Steve and Bucky are cuddling naked on Steve’s bed. They’ve taken a cool shower and cleaned up. The A/C is still at maximum and the August evening is still hot, but they don’t care and hold each other close, reveling in the touch of skin-on-skin.

Bucky is lying on his side, his head resting on Steve’s shoulder and his right arm and leg draped over Steve’s body. It’s a little warm but Steve sighs with contentment to feel his love right there, and he caresses Bucky’s shoulder and bicep with his free hand, occasionally turning to kiss the top of Bucky’s head.

Steve is just debating whether he should bring up the last few weeks when Bucky takes a deep breath and beats him to it.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t in touch earlier, Stevie,” Bucky says into Steve’s right pec, his voice a little muffled.

Steve exhales the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “It’s no problem, Buck,” he says. “I was just so worried...and I kept wondering if there was something I could do, some way I could help.”

“I know,” says Bucky, still muffled. “And I know you...wanted to help that horrible night at the club during the storm. But I couldn’t let you get involved. That would’ve made Brock angrier...I knew I could talk him down by myself but if anyone else had been there, it would have been worse. And I knew he wasn’t going to hurt me.”

“It sure looked like he was going to hurt you,” Steve says drily, pulling Bucky even closer. He still goes all Mama Bear just thinking about that situation.

“No, no...he was never violent in our fights, he just yelled a lot and said a lot of things he didn’t mean, and then he would buy me some nice present afterward.” Bucky pauses.

“Still,” he continues, “the fight that night when we got home was _awful_. The worst we’ve ever had. He was so jealous of Jack, said I was cheating on him and he was going to divorce me and throw me out on the street. I told him over and over that there was no affair, we were just friends, and he wouldn’t believe me.”

Bucky rubs his face gently against Steve’s chest, as if to erase the memory. Steve runs his hand up and down Bucky’s arm.

“What happened,” he asks in the gentlest voice he can muster.

“It went on for a while, and I kept insisting I wasn’t cheating on him. It is...it was the only way to argue with Brock, to pick your ground and stand on it. I thought I was finally getting through to him, when...when...” Bucky gulps and continues. “...when his eyes got really big and his face went from red to paper white in an instant. The next moment he was on the floor, unconscious and not breathing.” His voice dies out in a sob.

“Oh god, Buck, I’m so sorry,” says Steve, hugging him closer.

“I called 911 and tried to do CPR,” Bucky continues, “but it took a while for the ambulance to get there and by the time they did arrive, he was gone. We went to Huntington Hospital, and the doctor there certified the death.” Steve can feel Bucky’s tears on his chest and reaches over to grab him a Kleenex.

“After Brock...died, I had a bit of a meltdown but everything still had to get done. I blamed myself for his death, but I still had to take care of everything...”

“Did the doctor tell you it was your fault?” Steve interrupts, lifting Bucky’s chin to look him fiercely in the eyes. He’s going to nip this in the bud now.

“N-no,” stammers Bucky, his eyes shiny and wet. “She said it was sudden cardiac death from a massive coronary, and there was nothing else I could’ve done. The autopsy showed blockages and enlargement in the ventricles, but we wouldn’t have known about these without a cardiology screening. And Brock always refused to go to the doctor...he said he was so fit that he didn’t need to.”

_Of course he fuckin did,_ Steve rolls his eyes internally. _That absolutely sounds like the Brock Rumlow I knew._

“Then listen to me, James Buchanan Barnes,” says Steve, strident. “It is not your fault he died. You are not to blame for his death. There is nothing you did that caused him to die.”

“But our big fight...” Bucky starts to say but Steve cuts him off. “Yes yes, you had a big fight,” he declares. “The fight didn’t cause him to keel over. It could’ve happened any time, while he was at work, while he was driving, while he was playing golf. You did nothing, OK? OK?”

Bucky hesitates for a second and then nods. Steve smiles and kisses him sweetly on the lips. He knows he’s going to have to reinforce Bucky’s innocence in the matter of Brock’s death and he has full confidence in his ability to do so.

“A-anyway,” Bucky continues, smiling a little after the kiss and rubbing his cheek against Steve’s chest. “I wanted to get in touch with you but I was so overwhelmed and there was so much to do...happily Bobbi and Izzy helped...that’s Brock’s ex-wife and his daughter...and so did Brock’s lawyer and executor, Jennifer Walters. I couldn’t have managed it all without her.”

“I’m so glad you had help, Buck,” says Steve sincerely, kissing the top of Bucky’s head. “I was so worried you were all alone, in that big house, dealing with everything.”

“Well, I was alone in that big house a lot,” Bucky says, his voice a little shaky. “There were so many times I wanted to call you, but I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Oh fuck, sweetheart.” Now it’s Steve’s voice that’s wobbling. “You should have called. I’d have been over right away.” Bucky shakes his head, his face buried against Steve’s neck. He hesitates, then lifts his head to look at Steve.

“Hey Steve,” he says, voice still unsteady. “You know there was really nothing between me and Jack, right? He was a nice guy and fun to hang out with, but I wasn’t really interested in him.” Steve opens his mouth to speak but Bucky hurries on.

“I was so in love with you, but I couldn’t figure out how to leave Brock and I knew you would never have an affair.” Bucky swallows hard. “Your integrity and strength of character...it’s one of the things I love most about you.” Steve smiles and kisses his forehead.

“When we almost kissed at my house that night I was so drunk, I realized that we were in danger of...of...getting too close,” Bucky goes on. “I totally understood why you kept away after that, though I missed you terribly and my heart hurt so bad. I’ve been in love with you so long, Steve.”

“Yeah, me too,” Steve rasps, cradling Bucky’s face with his left hand and running his thumb over Bucky’s cheekbone. Bucky leans into the touch. “I’ve...I’ve been in love with you since I met you, since you followed me into the bathroom at the club the night we met.”

Bucky smiles. “I was so attracted to you that night, and my feelings just grew and grew and then after our tennis game...and then I _really_ knew I loved you during our golf lesson. While you were holding me to correct my swing I just wanted to stay in your arms forever.”

“And I never wanted to let you go.” Steve’s voice is hoarse with emotion. His expression intensifies. “And I never want to let you go now.”

“About that...” Bucky says, biting his bottom lip. “Can I...can I stay here tonight?” As Steve nods, Bucky hurries on. “And...and...for a while after that? The house is so big and lonely...and I’m getting it ready to sell anyway. I know this is sudden and it’s a big imposition...”

“No, Buck, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want,” Steve rushes to reassure his lover, moving his hand from Bucky’s cheek to rub his back. Then his expression goes mischievous. “It’s a pretty small one-bedroom, though, not the palatial living quarters you’re used to. You might get tired of living with the proletariat.”

“I’d never get tired of living with you, Stevie.” Bucky stares seriously at Steve, his voice quiet. Then he looks around the bedroom and his face goes mischievous. “Though we could potentially think about an upgrade.” Steve’s face shows his confusion.

“You never asked about Brock’s will,” Bucky continues. “As you might imagine, he was worth a lot of money. Most of it goes into a trust for Izzy, but Bobbi and I each got a share as well.”

Steve’s eyebrows raise. “Yes?” he says, not even sure what “a share” means in this context. Bucky’s lip curls up.

“He left me the house. And $100 million,” says Bucky, and his eyes are amused when Steve’s mouth literally drops open.

“Wait...what...you...are you...” Steve’s brain is currently shorting out. He’s used to dealing with very rich people at the club, but he’s never actually been in a relationship with one. Finally he manages to spit out a complete sentence. “What the fuck are you gonna do, Buck?”

Bucky looks down at Steve’s chest and then back up at his face.

“Well, it’s way too much money for me,” Bucky admits. “So I think I’ll set up a foundation and start giving it away. Hope that’s OK with you, and you weren’t already thinking that you could quit your degree program and hang out on a yacht in the Caribbean with your rich boyfriend for the rest of your life.” His eyes twinkle.

“Of course not!” Steve acts insulted. “That you should even think such a thing.” He pauses for a minute before going on. “Not that hanging out with you on a yacht in the Caribbean would be so terrible.” Now it’s Steve’s eyes that are bright and teasing.

Bucky grins. “We can do that for Christmas,” he says decidedly. “But just for a week on a rental sailboat.” He leans forward and seals his mouth on Steve’s in a languorous kiss.

“I can’t wait to start my life with you, Steve Rogers. I love you so much,” Bucky whispers as he pulls back. In response, Steve kisses him passionately, almost roughly, licking into his mouth and hearing his involuntary moan with a measure of satisfaction.

“I love you, Bucky Barnes,” Steve says in a whisper-growl. Then, feeling Bucky’s cock hardening against his thigh, Steve deftly lifts his leg to push against Bucky’s crotch and reveling in the “Oh!” he draws from his lover’s lips.

“And I think,” Steve continues, pulling Bucky fully on top of him, wrapping his arms around him, and grinding their erections together, “We’ve already started that life and we need to get back to it right this minute.”

“Fuck yessss, Stevie,” hisses Bucky. “Fuck. Yes.”

🏌🏽♀️🏌🏻🏌🏾♂️

**Epilogue: Calm and Certainty**

“Hi, Mrs. McCormick!” Steve smiles and approaches the older woman’s table, where she’s sitting with her husband and the Van Dynes for dinner. He holds out his hand, but she ignores it and stands up to give him a proper hug. Steve is a little surprised - he knows Mrs. McCormick pretty well but he wouldn’t say they’re super-close - but he goes with it.

“Great tournament today, Steve,” Mrs. McCormick says as she lets go. “It was so fun to play doubles with Carol...and I got to meet Madison Keys!”

“I’m so glad you had a good time, Mrs. McCormick,” says Steve. He and Sam put together a charity tennis tournament at the club featuring a number of up-and-coming players on the professional circuit - thanks to Carol Danvers - and benefitting a number of local charities, including Bucky’s former employer, Breakthrough New York, and the nearby children’s hospitals.

“Call me Betty, please, Steve,” Mrs. McCormick. “And you must be really proud!” She looks pointedly over his shoulder to where Bucky is talking to the Baizens at another table. Steve didn’t play in the tournament, but Bucky did, and won third place in amateur men’s singles. Steve got to put the medal around his boyfriend’s neck at the awards ceremony that closed the tournament and then kiss him, to cheers from the attendees and wolf whistles from Clint.

Steve looks over his shoulder at his love. Bucky is smiling and his face is pink, his hair a little curlier than usual and still damp from his post-tournament shower. Then he looks back at Mrs. McCormick...Betty.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, I am.” Suddenly an arm loops around his elbow and the familiar scents of pine and vetiver fill Steve’s nostrils.

“Hi Betty!” Bucky chirps. “Can I steal Steve away? The Baizens want to say hello.”

“Of course,” says Betty, her eyes twinkling at Bucky. “Have a nice night, you two.”

It’s late May, nine months after that hot August night when Bucky burst into Steve’s apartment in Smithtown and they shared so many firsts - first kiss, first lovemaking, first time saying “I love you.” The next few months after that were busy, as Bucky worked to sell the Cold Spring Harbor mansion and set up his foundation, and Steve went back to Stony Brook for his last two classes and continued to work at the club.

They lived happily in Steve’s little apartment, though Bucky would occasionally grouse at the lack of closet space. Once the house was sold, the two men spent a couple of months looking for a new home. They found the perfect three-bedroom bungalow in Sayville on the south shore and moved in after Christmas, which they spent sailing around Tortola and the British Virgin Islands.

The Sayville house is a five-minute walk from the beach and a ten-minute walk from Main Street, and Bucky and Steve love their new community. Their house is also not far from several parks, and Steve loves to drag Bucky to the one with a dog park every weekend to watch the dogs run around. Steve’s birthday is less than six weeks away and Bucky plans to take him to the local shelter to see about getting him a puppy.

Steve is about to finish his student teaching semester at Division Avenue High School in Levittown, and he’s already accepted an offer to teach full-time at Massapequa High School in the fall. Sam is heartbroken that Steve is leaving the club in August, but Steve has promised to help plan all the big tournaments and is already training Nat, who’ll be his replacement as athletic manager. She is frighteningly competent and Steve has very little to teach her; they spend most of her “training” time trash-texting Bucky and Clint and looking at cute animal videos online.

Bucky and Steve finish chatting with the Baizens and say hi to a number of other club members in the dining room, including Thor Odinson and his two guests, a petite brunette and a tall and striking man with long black hair, before deciding that their “official” socializing is finished. They wave to Peter behind the bar, and head into the kitchen.

Out of the spotlight and among their friends who work at the club, the two men can relax and be more themselves. It took a little while for Steve’s co-workers to warm up to Bucky, seeing as he’s a club member, but once they realized he was chill and saw them as people and not order-taking automatons, they welcomed him in.

Bucky and Steve hold hands as they talk animatedly with the kitchen staff, being careful not to get in the way or put anyone in an uncomfortable position of feeling like they have to choose being friendly over doing their job. They’re just leaving the kitchen through the service exit down a back hall and planning to go see Sam when they hear a voice to their right.

“Y’all leavin’ without saying goodbye?” The voice is mellifluous but also faux-outraged. Steve turns to see Sam and grins.

“Of course,” he answers, eyes twinkling. “Can’t hang around with the riffraff.” Sam gasps, pretending to be insulted.

“Is that any way to talk to your soon-to-be-ex-boss, Rogers,” he says, shaking his head. But he’s grinning too. “At least be civil to _my_ boss, you two.” As he speaks, Kamala comes out from behind him, holding a tiny wriggling figure.

“Kamala! So good to see you!” Steve goes in to hug Sam’s wife at the same time Bucky says, “Hi Amaya!” and goes in to kiss the baby. They all end up laughing in a big group hug, which ends when Baby Amaya squawks with irritation and then holds her arms out to her favorite honorary uncle. Bucky takes Amaya happily and lets her play with his hair and stick her fingers in his mouth. She’s seven months old and can’t walk yet but, as Sam tells Steve, she loves to pull herself along on her stomach and is obsessed with people’s faces.

“You look awfully natural holding that baby, Bucky,” says Sam, raising his eyebrows and smirking.

“He does, doesn’t he,” murmurs Steve, his voice threaded with tenderness. Bucky hears this and turns pink, looking radiantly at Steve.

“Well, it’s easy when the baby is as cute as this one,” Bucky says. He looks at Amaya. “Aren’t you the cutest baby,” he croons. She yells “Bah!” and whacks him in the face. Sam, Bucky, and Steve laugh but Kamala says sharply, “Oh little girl!” and moves to take her back.

“I’m so sorry, Bucky,” Kamala says, grabbing Amaya’s flailing arm with her hand as she deftly tucks the baby under her arm. Bucky shrugs.

“It’s fine, no worries,” he says, still smiling and cooing at the baby. Sam raises his eyebrows and looks pointedly at Steve, who shrugs and smiles. Someday Bucky will look that natural holding their baby, but not quite yet.

They talk for a few more minutes until Amaya declares she’s had enough and starts to wail. The adults wrap it up fast and say goodnight with hugs all round. Sam and Kamala head off to their car, while Steve and Bucky clasp hands again and amble outside down the walkway toward the lower level, the fitness center and Nat’s office. They haven’t seen Nat or Clint since before dinner and they want to say goodnight.

It’s a beautiful evening and the setting sun is lighting up the sky in unreplicable shades of pink and orange, contrasting with the blue sky in the east that is darkening from sapphire to navy. Looking at this frankly ridiculous vista, Steve’s heart is warm in his chest. He’s here, on a such a night, with his soulmate, and his whole being is flooded with calm and certainty. He stops on the path to look up and marvel, and takes a deep breath.

A year ago now he played tennis with Bucky and loved him hopelessly and in silence. A year ago now he lied to Nat and escaped to the shower to relieve his feelings and pretend that Bucky was something and someone he could have. Back then Steve never dared to imagine that they would be here today, together. He closes his eyes in happiness and overwhelmed gratitude.

“Y’OK, Stevie?” Bucky murmurs when they stop, but he squeezes Steve’s hand like he knows the answer already. Because he does.

“Yeah, Buck,” says Steve after a minute, swallowing down his emotions. “Yeah.” He turns to Bucky and gives him a quick, sweet kiss.

They continue down to the club entrance nearest the fitness center and quietly go through the doors. They approach Nat’s office and are about to knock when they hear a moan from inside and an “Oh yeah!” that is unmistakably Clint Barton.

“Fuck yes, Nat, yes...you do me so good...yessssss” says the voice.

“Quiet, Barton.” Nat’s voice is so low they only just pick it up. It’s answered by another moan.

Steve and Bucky look at each other, smiling, eyes wide, before they creep away down the hall. As they get close to Steve’s office and out of earshot, they let go and laugh out loud.

“Holy shit,” Bucky gasps. His shoulders are shaking and tears are gathering at the corners of his blue-grey eyes.

“I know, right??” responds Steve. He knows his face is pink from cracking up but he can’t help himself. “I’m not even sure I want to know what they’re doing in there.”

Steve unlocks his office and they go inside, where Bucky collapses on Steve’s guest chair while Steve stands near the door. Steve eyes him speculatively. He was going to wait ‘til they got home, but...

“Hey Buck, you ever think about...” Steve starts, looking with bright, hungry eyes at his boyfriend. Bucky looks back at him, reading his mind, and cuts him off.

“Yes, of course, Rogers, but I’d rather do it on our much more comfortable furniture at home,” he retorts. But then he looks Steve up and down appreciatively, taking in the muscles bunching under Steve’s tight golf shirt and fitted twill pants.

“OK, maybe not _that_ in your office,” Bucky continues. “But I wouldn’t say no to some...light canoodling.” His eyebrows lift and his eyes sparkle invitingly in his perfect face as he pivots in the chair and spreads his legs.

Steve gulps. Suddenly his fitted trousers are too tight and he can’t lock the door and cross the room to his beloved fast enough.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on a dream I had earlier this year. The dream was just the epilogue of walking around with Seb in a country club and making out in a club office, and it was one of the better dreams I’ve ever had. I wondered how our two beloved ding dongs would make it to that point in their relationship and...well, here we are. 
> 
> There is a real North Shore Country Club in Glen Head, NY but I changed some details, made it even fancier, and moved it a few miles east, closer to Huntington and Cold Spring Harbor where Brock and Bucky live. 
> 
> I’ve only played golf twice in my life, so apologies if I don’t get all the details right! I’ve got more experience with tennis but I’m still no Serena, so apologies for any mistakes there as well. No regrets over the shout-out to Federer, though, he’s my favorite. 
> 
> Mookie Wilson and Keith Hernandez are retired New York Mets players. Ahmad Bradshaw, Amani Toomer, and Michael Strahan were on the Super Bowl-winning New York Giants in 2008. I live in Boston and I’m a Boston sports fan, so I think I deserve some props for including positive references to three 2008 Giants in this story. Like Steve, I try to give credit where credit is due. 
> 
> Google tells me Dana Walden is the chairperson of ABC Television and thus Michael Strahan’s top boss in real life. I made it up that she lives on Long Island and goes to this country club, though. 
> 
> Walnut Tree Lane is a real street in Cold Spring Harbor, a tree-lined road about a half-mile from the Sound populated with HUGE mansions on giant lots. An extended family member of mine used to live in the smallest house on that street...and it was still like 6,000 square feet. Since they sold it, it’s been torn down and replaced with a 12-15,000 sf monstrosity similar to the one Steve drives Bucky home to when he’s drunk. 
> 
> An Audi A4 is like the Toyota Camry of German performance sedans - reliable and safe and fairly affordable, and definitely not flashy. Unlike the R8, which costs six figures and screams “I have more money than I know what to do with and am insecure in my masculinity.”
> 
> DASA refers to the New York State Dignity for All Students Act, and aspiring teachers are required to take a class on preventing harassment, bullying, and discrimination as part of their certification. 
> 
> NY1 is a local New York cable news channel. 
> 
> Based on Bucky’s account to Steve, Brock dies of sudden cardiac death in this story, even though the newspaper calls it a “heart attack.” 
> 
> Shout out to Division Avenue High School in Levittown, my dad’s (RIP) alma mater.


End file.
